


A Good Landing

by ant5b



Series: A Good Landing [1]
Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: AU, AU Post-Confidential Casefiles of Agent 22, DW is not a TV show, Darkwing Duck Villains, Double-O-Duck, Launchpad is a joy to write, M/M, Minor Violence, Non-Graphic Violence, Original Darkwing canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2018-11-24
Packaged: 2019-01-16 06:10:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12337041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ant5b/pseuds/ant5b
Summary: Just whoisLaunchpad McQuack?In trying to find the answer, Dewey uncovers a mystery greater than he could've imagined.





	1. One Question

**Author's Note:**

> I've had the idea for this story in the works for a while now, I hope all enjoy it! Darkwing Duck is one of my favorite cartoons, and I just hope I can do its characters justice here!  
> This fic is going to rely on the original Darkwing rather than the new DT (2017) Darkwing canon, for story's sake  
> Also, no DW this chapter, but definitely next time!

 

“Sure you don’t need anything else, Mr. McDee?”

“No, no, that’ll be all for today, Launchpad. But I expect you here at eight o’clock sharp and no later!”

“You know it, boss! I’ll be here!”

Dewey disinterestedly watched the exchange between his great-uncle and his chauffeur from Webby’s window, feeling frustrated and bored.

The bedroom’s owner was sprawled upside down against a mountain of stuffed animals, firing arrows from a small compact bow at the target on the opposite wall. They’d met up to discuss strategy regarding how to get more information on his mother, after their ordeal to get into Scrooge’s archives only raised more questions than answers. But when Webby’s schemes started becoming more and more outlandish, Dewey decided that a break was probably in order.

And so he’d ended up at the window, absently observing the goings-on beneath him.

Dewey watched Launchpad drop Scrooge off, before leaving the limo in the second garage, this one sans any cursed objects. And according to Launchpad’s license, it was where he lived.

But what the pilot did next surprised him.

Launchpad didn’t taking a nap in the front seat or heading inside to score a free meal, as he was wont to do. Instead he clambered of the limo and headed to the back of the car. He opened the trunk and retrieved what Dewey swore was a Quackypatch brand backpack, as sickeningly pink as it was.

Dewey snorted at the sight of it, but watched as Launchpad slung a strap over one shoulder, and closed the trunk with his other hand. He locked the limo, and to Dewey’s growing curiosity, walked back out of the garage leading a massive, dark purple motorcycle he’d never seen before.

He put on a matching helmet, started up the bike, and peeled out of the driveway with his usual disregard for safety or speed limits.

And in that moment, Dewey realized how little he knew about Launchpad.

The man who drove them to school every morning and back home every afternoon, always stopping for ice cream when they asked. Launchpad, who would laugh at his own bad jokes, and pulled off death-defying stunts in planes, cars, submarines, and subway cars, and would get nightmares if he watched scary movies. These were all things Dewey knew, that they all knew, but which gave little insight to the man himself.

“Hey, Webby....” Dewey said slowly, unsure of what he meant to ask.

She looked up at him as she was in the midst of firing another arrow, throwing off her aim and sending it into the ceiling instead.

“Yeah, Dewey?” she replied curiously, clearly having seen his conflicted expression.

“You’ve lived here the entire time Launchpad’s been Scrooge’s chauffeur, right?” he said hesitantly.

“Yup,” Webby confirmed, though as she nocked another arrow she wilted a little at the reminder of how long she’d spent apart from the rest of the world.

“What do you know about him?”

Webby dropped her bow in an instant, somersaulting backward and rising to her feet in a flash. “Oh man, what do you _wanna_ know? I’ve done _loads_ of research —are you interested in the Glasgow chapter, or maybe the Terror of the Transvaal? Or-or the _King of the Klondike!"_

Dewey turned away from the window, waving his hands wildly in the hopes of cutting Webby off before she really got on a roll. “No, no, I meant _Launchpad_ , what do you know about Launchpad?”

Webby froze, already poised to take _The Secret Files of Webbgail Vanderquack_ off the shelf. “Um…”

“He’s worked here for years, right?” Dewey pointed out, throwing his arms out at his sides. “You’ve gotta know something!”

“Er…” Webby tugged self-consciously on a lock of her hair. “I think he lives in St. Canard?”

“That’s _it_? You know my great-grandmother’s shoe size but only that Launchpad lives in another city?”

Webby shrugged, wringing her hands and looking everywhere but at Dewey. “All my focus has been on researching Scrooge and his family, and there’s just so much _history_ that I—”

“No, it’s not your fault,” Dewey quickly interrupted, raising his hands apologetically. “I’m just mad at myself. I mean,” he sighed, plopping down on the floor beneath the window, “Launchpad calls me his best friend, but I don’t know a thing about him! Not even his shoe size.”

He and Webby exchanged a small smile.

Webby placed her book back on the shelf before joining him on the carpet. She crossed her legs, clasping her knees, and leaned forward slightly.

“So. What’s the plan?”

Dewey beamed, before his expression turned serious. “Okay, well, since we’ve been hitting some speed bumps when it comes to finding out more about my mom, I say we take a break and focus on Launchpad instead. That way we’ll get some practice investigating—”

" _And_ get information on Launchpad!” Webby finished proudly. Her eyes went wide. “Whoa. Is this like what twin ESP’s like?”

Dewey groaned. “I told you, twin ESP _isn’t a thing_! It’s only coincidence when we finish each other's sentences!”

 

It turned out that their plan to learn more about Launchpad would be more challenging than they expected.

Online searches came up with very little; he didn’t have a Beakbook account, nor did he seem overly present on any other social media platforms. Dewey and Webby were hesitant to present their questions to Beakley or Scrooge, embarrassed by their lack of knowledge and lack of interest up to this point.

One plus was that they were able to recruit Huey and Louie’s help for this scheme, unlike their clandestine investigation into Della Duck, which still left Dewey stewing in guilt when he thought about it too long.  

Huey was appropriately aghast at the realization that he knew so little about the only member of their group always willing and eager to wear his matching roadtrip shirts.

Louie’s reaction was less extreme, though he admitted to a curiosity regarding the pilot that only grew when Dewey described Launchpad’s motorcycle to him.

In the end they exhausted all covert avenues, and resolved to simply get their answers by _asking_ Launchpad. But even this proved surprisingly difficult.

The more they paid attention, they more they realized that despite being such a big, goofy guy, and a walking natural disaster, he attracted very little attention. Launchpad had the strangest knack for blending into the background and going unnoticed, his lighthearted comments forgotten in the wake of Scrooge’s grandeur and Donald’s constant over-protectiveness.

And when Launchpad did talk more, it was never about himself. He was never short on stories, but more often than not they’d be about someone he met in flight school or the grocery check-out line, or an adventure someone _else_ had told him about.

One of the only definitive things he’d ever said about himself was that he was a pilot, and that had been ages and a trip to Atlantis ago.

They decided to simply start asking Launchpad more personal questions, giving him more attention when he was around, to little success.

When asked for his opinion on movie night, he replied, “Anything’s good, as long as it’s not scary.”

A question about his experience in flight school was answered with, “It was better on my fifth time through. But my pal, Baloo, he was a _pro_! You wouldn’t believe some of the stunts he pulled off!”

“What’s St. Canard like?” the kids eventually asked, and he shrugged.

“Like any ol’ city, just more crime.” But then he crouched and looked them all in the eye with a seriousness uncharacteristic of him. “You kids know not to go there alone, right? There are some real weirdos over there.”

 

Early on, when everything was still so new to the triplets, Scrooge and the kids entered the cargo hold of the newly, _impossibly,_  rebuilt _Sunchaser_ in awe, as if the catastrophic crash of two weeks prior never happened. While the kids marveled, Scrooge turned on Launchpad with an expression ponderous as a thunderstorm.

“How?” was all he demanded, terse and with a hint of warning, clearly thinking of  his pocketbook.

Launchpad watched the kids roughhouse and explore the cavernous cargo bay with a fond smile that hardly faded as he faced his boss with a casual shrug. “I fixed her up, Mr. McDee, free of charge! I figured you’d need both of us to fly you to your adventures, right?

(And Scrooge recalled all the times Launchpad had dropped him off at the Money Bin in a limousine festooned with dents and a warped grill, sending him a thumbs up and a big grin through the window. “Don’t you worry, boss, I’ll have this baby good as new in no time!”

And the limo would return, _good as new,_ every evening as promised.)

 

And so it went that their questions were resplendent with vague, impersonal answers, and Launchpad never elaborated on those “weirdos” he mentioned. It would almost be annoying if Launchpad weren’t still so earnest and easygoing, apparently oblivious to their attempts to pry into his life.

This pattern continued for about two weeks before they finally made a modicum of progress.  

They’d returned from the jungles of Peruvia just the night before, which meant that the whole day was reserved for relaxation and nothing else. The four of them woke at around noon, just in time to see Scrooge before he left for an abbreviated visit to the office.

In the ensuing hours, and after a hearty breakfast-for-lunch, Huey suggested having a campout. They were confined to the mansion grounds, but they were so expansive and still so novel for the triplets that it wasn’t a bad thing. They gathered all the necessary supplies, of which Scrooge had in abundance, as well as all the junk food they could find.

Scrooge returned in early evening, looking tired and frustrated, but his expression warmed upon seeing them stacking sleeping bags in the foyer.

“Going on another expedition are we?” he asked wryly, leaning on his cane, as Huey worked on calculating how much water to bring.

“You bet!” Dewey cried, brandishing two large flashlights like swords. “We’re going on a hunt for the dangerous and elusive garden peacock!”

Scrooge shook a chastising finger, though his beak was still curled in a smile. “Now, don’t you go pestering poor Angus!”

“Don’t worry, Uncle Scrooge, Dewey was just messing around,” Webby assured him as she pulled on her backpack.

“Besides, there’s no way he’ll _actually_ go looking for him,” Louie said, “not after he freaked out over Angus bursting into the tent last time.”

“I told you, I didn’t freak out! He just startled me!”

Webby directed Scrooge’s attention away from the bickering siblings by tentatively approaching him. “Did you wanna come with us, Uncle Scrooge?”

Scrooge chuckled, reaching down to gently ruffle her hair. “Ach, I’d love to, lass, but these old bones need some rest in a proper bed. Why don’t you ask Launchpad?” he suggested before her expression could fall to disappointment. “He should still be outside.”

As if he’d been waiting for Scrooge’s cue, Launchpad stuck his head around the front door.

“Hey, Mr. McDee—”

 _"Launchpad!_ ” Dewey crowed. He took a running start at the pilot.

Seeing the duckling making a beeline for him, Launchpad quickly entered the foyer proper and opened his arms wide.

Dewey jumped, latching onto Launchpad’s left arm so that he dangled over a foot off the ground. Launchpad chuckled, lightly swinging his arm to make the duckling sway.

The reactions of the other three children were a little belated, but it didn’t take long for Louie and Webby to run over to Launchpad as well. They clung to his legs and made it that much more difficult for him to walk. Huey stood off to the side, snickering but on the lookout for any chance of Launchpad losing his balance.

But Launchpad, it seemed, had mastered the art of the living jungle gym, and laughed at all of the added weight. “Geez, what’s Mrs. B been feeding you kids, _bricks_?”

With little effort he walked over to Scrooge with the three giggling children hanging off of him.

“Launchpad,” Scrooge acknowledged his pilot seriously, despite the amusement that threatened to curl his beak.

“Hey, Mr. McDee,” Launchpad said again, as cheerful as ever. “Just wanted to let you know I’m heading out, in case you needed anything else.”

“That’ll be all for—”

The children’s voices rose in protest.

 _“Nooo_ , you can’t leave!” Dewey said.

“We’re gonna have a campout!” Huey added.

Launchpad chuckled, though his smile was apologetic. “Sorry, guys, but I’ve got work.”

“You just told Scrooge you were _done_ for the day,” Louie pointed out.

Scrooge butted in, his driver’s rueful expression making him feel a twinge of sympathy,“He’s got a second job, kids, leave him be!”

“A second job?” Dewey repeated as Launchpad carefully set him down. He noticed a familiar bubblegum pink strap over one of Launchpad’s shoulders, and pointed at it. “Is that what you need the backpack for?”

“Huh?” Launchpad responded. He craned his head over one shoulder, as if he’d never noticed the backpack before. “O-oh, yeah! I’ve got my chauffeuring uniform and my-my security guarding uniform in there!”

None of them noticed Scrooge stiffen as he made to climb the stairs.

“ _Ooh_ , what are you guarding?” Webby asked. Her eyes were wide with wonder as she released Launchpad’s leg and stood up, clasping her hands in front of her chest.  “A secret cloning facility? The headquarters of a covert spy organization? Oh, or-or—!”

“How about the deadly Silverbeaks Mall?” Launchpad suggested, and Webby pouted.

Before any of the kids could try to further coerce him into staying, Launchpad’s phone began playing the _Pelican’s Island_ theme song. He fished his phone out of his pocket and glanced at the screen for only a handful of seconds before bursting into motion.

“Sorry, guys, that was my-my other boss! I’ve gotta get going before I’m late,” he explained to the kids, quickly stepping backward to the door. “We’ll do something fun tomorrow! Later, Mr. McDee!”

He waved once before ducking through the front door, the roar of his motorcycle starting up not a moment later and fading away swiftly.

The kids sulked for only a moment longer before they got back in the camping spirit, Huey going through his checklist once more before they headed out. But Dewey paused in the middle of strapping his sleeping bag to his pack when he noticed Scrooge hadn’t moved from the foot of the stairs. His great-uncle was sporting a strange expression, his brow furrowed as he stared at the door Launchpad had disappeared through.

“Everything okay, Uncle Scrooge?” Dewey hedged as he approached him.

Scrooge blinked, and the spell seemed to have broken. “What—oh, yes, Dewey, I’m fine. Just more tired than I realized.”

Scrooge didn’t tell his nephew about the twist he felt in his gut, the sense of wrongness that told him Launchpad had been lying. What he couldn’t have realized was that Dewey felt the exact same thing.


	2. The New Hire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scrooge notices, and Scrooge worries

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been ages since I updated, and I'm really sorry for that! This chapter fought me for the longest time.  
> But this fic has not been abandoned, I promise I've still got big plans in store!  
> Also, no DW yet, but next chapter for sure!

If Scrooge put his mind to it, he noticed that there were a lot of things about Launchpad that didn’t quite make sense.

Beakley hired him after Scrooge scared away half a dozen other capable chauffeurs, and grew tired of “ferrying him to and from work.” But to this day, Scrooge couldn’t fathom how she and Launchpad knew each other in the first place.

He met Launchpad only a few hours after Beakley informed him that he’d have a new driver. Despite mild annoyance at her having hired someone behind his back, Scrooge didn’t think anything of it. He expected Beakley to hire a sober, straightlaced driver that shared her love of order and super spy subterfuge, per the norm.

Instead, he got Launchpad McQuack.

Contrary to Beakley’s usual qualifications in every way, Launchpad was young, in his early thirties if Scrooge were to guess. He was tall and barrel chested and arrived wearing a novelty chauffeur's hat, as well as a dress shirt and tie under an aviator jacket.

Scrooge reached the foyer just in time to watch him pull up to the mansion on a ridiculous purple motorcycle, and to his shock, greet Beakley like she was an old friend.

“Hey, Mrs. B! Long time no see!” Launchpad shook her hand happily, and Beakley not only tolerated this, but reached out to grip his shoulder in a comradely way.

“It has been some time, Launchpad. How is that partner of yours?”

“Oh you know, DW and I keep busy! How’s working for the world’s richest duck?”

“You tell me.”

Launchpad belatedly noticed Scrooge, half hidden in Beakley’s shadow. His eyes went comically wide, and before Scrooge could properly introduce himself, the taller duck had his hand in a death grip, pumping it up and down in an exuberant handshake.

“Mr. McDuck! I’m a huge fan, it’s such an honor to meet you! I can’t thank you enough for this opportunity, sir, I promise I won’t let you down!”

Though Scrooge was less than eager to enter a moving vehicle with what seemed to be a particularly large child, he trusted Beakley not to hire someone who would drive them into the bay. Though her advice to “go easy on him” was less than comforting.

So it was that on his first day on the job, Launchpad got lost on the way to the Money Bin.

He drove like the very hounds of hell were on his heels, banking sharply and driving at speeds ludicrously above the posted limit. As Scrooge slid from one side of his seat to the other, Launchpad joked apologetically about being new to Duckburg.

“I hardly leave St. Canard anymore, I bet you know how that goes, huh, Mr. McDee? You get so busy with work and family _—_ that little girl back at your place was cute, she your granddaughter?”

Scrooge knew that Webby had in fact been spying from the vents, which meant that Launchpad never should’ve noticed her in the first place, but he was a little too preoccupied at the moment to tease apart that little detail.

“—and I know _my_ partner’s got his hands full with work and his kid, well she’s kinda my kid too now, isn’t that crazy?”

Scrooge did his best to tune out his chauffeur's rambling as he desperately shouted directions, his heart racing like it hadn’t done in nearly a decade.

They eventually arrived at in the Money Bin mostly in one piece, and Scrooge only five minutes late to a board meeting thanks to Launchpad’s ridiculous speed. But Scrooge was of the mind to fire the imbecile then and there, Beakley’s favor or not, as he was far from in the mood for such a chatty lawsuit in-waiting.

Launchpad parked, if you could call crashing into the wall _parking_ , and Scrooge stomped out of the limo, prepared to ignore his one-time chauffeur and resolved to have Beakley fire him herself if they were so chummy. He’d prefer _walking_ to work at this rate!

But Launchpad spoke up behind him, his voice so low and careful that he had Scrooge turning around out of pure surprise.

“Mr. McDuck, I um...I wanted to thank you again, y’know, for this chance,” he was staring at the steering wheel, his expression strangely unreadable and almost jarring after his exuberance on the ride over. “Not a whole lot of people would do that.”

Beakley’s warning to “go easy on him” took on a whole new meaning.

When Launchpad finally looked  back up at Scrooge, it was as though a switch had been thrown and he was back to his jovial self. “And hey, now I probably won’t get lost on my way here! What time should I be here to pick you up, by the way?”

Scrooge could’ve fired him then. _Should’ve_ fired him.

What came out of his beak instead was, “Be here at four o’clock on the dot, and not a minute later!”

Still, just because he’d hired the man didn’t mean Scrooge was really any friendlier. Launchpad tended to ramble, which was one of the reasons Scrooge tended to tune him out entirely, but there were things that would take an idiot not to notice.

In the two years Launchpad was in his employ, he never worked after six, barring special occasions and their more recent globetrotting adventures.

Scrooge didn’t mind—in fact, it was his worst nightmare to be stuck in a board meeting later than four—but Launchpad was almost overly apologetic and then oddly furtive when he asked about it.  

“Oh, it’s uh, my other job,” he’d explain haltingly, “I’m in security.”

Then he joked about being stuck with the nightshift, and promptly changed the subject.

 

Launchpad was also a _parent_.

It took Scrooge offhandedly hearing his driver mention how great his kid was over a dozen times before it finally clicked in his head, and he actually looked up from his newspaper as they were en route to the Bin one brisk October morning.

“—like I keep telling Gos, keep the V6, it’s more economical, but kids today are all about the newer stuff—”

“Launchpad, are you telling me you're a _father?”_ Scrooge couldn’t keep himself from blurting, and nearly winced at how incredulous he sounded.

But Launchpad, affable as ever, only chuckled good-naturedly. “Crazy, right? Drake adopted Gosalyn before we were together, and I’m almost through the adoption papers myself! Soon it’ll be official!”

Launchpad had his eyes on the road for once, smiling brightly as Scrooge digested this startling piece of information in the backseat. His chauffeur often acted like a child himself, and this revelation led him to consider a side of Launchpad that he perhaps wasn’t privy to. But a _parent_? He couldn’t help his scoff as he returned to his newspaper. Would wonders never cease?

 

But perhaps the most disturbing thing Scrooge noticed about Launchpad was how often he came to work injured.

Black eyes and bruised cheekbones, sprained limbs and broken bones, and for once Launchpad had an explanation prepared whenever he asked.

He broke his middle and ring finger when he tried to swat a bug and ended up punching a wall. Dislocated his shoulder falling of his motorcycle, wasn’t paying attention when his daughter pitched a baseball straight at his face, tripped on the sidewalk and bashed his face and sprained his ankle, the list went on and on.

Under normal circumstances, Scrooge would’ve thought that Launchpad was simply the clumsiest man on earth. But something about that quick assessment didn’t sit right with him. Perhaps it was a culmination of all the things about Launchpad that didn’t quite add up, or the expression of disquiet that Beakley always quickly hid when the man in question showed up injured in any fashion.

Scrooge never knew how to properly broach the subject, and even if he did, what could he ask? Launchpad never talked about financial troubles other than the rare mention of his second job, and Scrooge couldn’t imagine him owing anyone money. Beakley trusted him, so that meant anything criminal was out of the question, but that still left the problem unanswered.

Scrooge’s attempts to get the truth were rendered fruitless because Launchpad had the gift of saying a lot without saying anything at all. He wouldn’t realize until later that he had no more information than he started with.

And as loathe as Scrooge was to admit it, he was starting to get a little worried. Maybe more than a little.

He noticed the kids beginning to share in his concern, though he was sure it was the idea of a mystery that enthralled them more than Launchpad’s overall wellbeing. So when Scrooge caught Dewey and Webby trying to listen in on Launchpad’s phone conversation as he left for his lunch break, he didn’t chastise them. Instead, he told them where Launchpad was going.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you thought in the comments below! Your feedback means the world to me :D


	3. The Hamburger Hippo Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More questions than answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Terror that Flaps in the Night finally makes his debut!  
> Also, Steven, the real hero of the hour.

 

He had the team. 

He had the tech. 

All he needed now was the target. 

They’d located the perfect covert location from which to observe, to  _ spy _ , hidden in plain sight. His team was highly trained and disciplined, prepared for any eventuality _ — _

“You know these tables are for customers only?”

Dispelled from his daydream, Dewey lowered his binoculars and turned to see the Birdy’s employee that was standing over their outdoor table. 

Louie stepped in, sitting up from where he’d been languishing on the bench. 

“No need to worry, Steven, you’ve got a paying customer right here,” Louie assured the teenage pig, lifting up his small pack of fries and gesturing to the large soda (with four straws sticking out of it) on the table to demonstrate. 

Steven blinked slowly, before turning away from Louie to observe the rest of the table. 

Dewey had returned to staring diligently through his binoculars, though neither Webby nor Huey had even looked up at the pig’s arrival. Their attention was instead devoted to the laptop, radio transmitter, speaker and other such complicated looking machinery that took up most of their table. 

Huey was hunched over beside Webby, who was wearing a heavy, black headset, and saying things like, “Is everything transmitting?” and “I’m almost at the right frequency,” back and forth at each other. 

Steven looked back at Louie with dead, tired eyes. 

“Do you want a refill?” he asked.   
With a smile, Louie handed him the soda cup, and Steven went back inside Birdy’s without a second glance at their setup. 

“Any sight of the target yet, Dewey?” Huey questioned, glancing over at his younger brother. 

Dewey was bouncing in place, the binoculars practically glued to his head. “Nothing yet!”

“Are you even sure Launchpad will be there?” Louie asked skeptically, slumped over the table and very slowly putting french fries in his beak. 

“Uncle Scrooge said he was going to Hamburger Hippo  _ with  _ someone,” Dewey replied eagerly. “Launchpad never talks about anyone he didn’t know ten years ago! This could be huge!”

“And that  _ is  _ the only Hamburger Hippo in Duckburg,” Huey offered helpfully, though he had returned to looking intently over the shoulder of Webby, who remained intensely focused as her fingers flew across the keyboard. 

“It’s a St. Canard franchise,” she added distractedly, not looking away from her laptop screen. 

In turn, Dewey returned zealously to his lookout position, and kept his gaze locked on the other fast food joint just across the street. 

He was a mess of anxiety and anticipation and Huey and Webby went through final checks on their radio transmitter system. But it wasn’t spy tech out of Dewey’s wildest dreams that had him so keyed up. 

After weeks of failure, of barely scratching at the surface of Launchpad’s mysterious background, they finally had a chance of getting some actual information. True, getting that information largely involved placing listening devices all around the area, but they’d already promised not to tell anyone about that part. 

They’d chosen the Birdy’s on the corner as their base of operations. With a bustling kids’ play area and a number of outdoor tables, they were effectively hidden in plain sight from the Hamburger Hippo’s across the street. 

Hamburger Hippo itself was a small eatery, with a massive, open hippopotamus mouth serving as the counter while also housing the kitchen and register. They’d placed spy bugs under the counter, as well as under the scattered tables with umbrellas that surrounded the giant hippo head. 

According to their Uncle Scrooge, who probably suspected what they were doing but had yet to lecture them about it, Launchpad had told him that he’d be going to Hamburger Hippo for his lunch break. This alone wouldn’t be reason enough to conduct a stakeout, but their great-uncle had also mentioned a friend from St. Canard joining him. 

Or rather, his exact words had been, “He’ll be meeting someone from that two-bit town, St. Canard,” doing little to hide his disdain for their sister city. 

But Launchpad had never mentioned a  _ friend  _ before, not even an acquaintance, especially not one from the city he warned them about more than their Uncle Donald did. This, of course, necessitated investigation and Webby just so happened to have a surplus of surveillance equipment on hand, gifted by her grandmother.

They’d rushed to the Birdy’s across the street from the only Hamburger Hippo in town, worried they’d be to late, only to find their target in question had yet to appear. This gave them plenty of time to casually scatter bugs around the area, and lie in wait. 

Webby tore herself away from her computer screen with a thumbs-up and a big grin. “We’re good to go! Listening devices are coming through clear.” 

“Now all we need is something to listen to,” Louie commented, lazily saluting Steven when he returned with their soda refill. 

“No good stakeout is complete without patience,” Webby imparted seriously, once Steven had returned inside. “We’ll wait all afternoon, all  _ night  _ if we have to, in order to find the truth — !

Huey leaned forward skeptically, saying, “Um, Birdy’s actually closes at  _ eight _ , so that wouldn’t be entirely possible.”

On his own stone bench apart from his siblings, Dewey went ramrod straight. “I-I see them!” he cried, standing up with the binoculars pressed tight to his face. 

“You’re sure it’s them?” Huey insisted, as Webby eagerly went back to typing madly on her keyboard and flipping through various programs. 

Dewey nodded, “It’s definitely Launchpad, but the other guy…?”

“Where are they?” Webby asked. 

“Um...Sector B?” Dewey hedged. “No, F! Or  _ maybe _ _ — _ ”

“Give me those!” Huey said exasperatedly, taking the binoculars out of Dewey’s hands. 

“ _ Hey _ !” Dewey exclaimed. 

Huey peered through the binoculars for a brief moment. “They’re in Sector C, Webby,” he informed her. 

Louie reached for the binoculars from across the table. “Hey, I wanna look!”

Webby shushed them all, smacking Louie’s hand back down.“Not now! I’m muting all the other feeds so we can hear what they’re saying.”

With his arms folded petulantly, Louie asked, “What’s Launchpad’s friend even look like?” 

“Well —” Huey started to say, only for Dewey to snatch the binoculars back . 

He stuck his tongue out in concentration as he began describing the stranger. “Well, he’s shorter than Launchpad...he’s got a big beak...wearing a sweater vest…”

“Sounds like a nerd,” Louie remarked. 

“I’ve isolated the signal!” Webby announced, and the three boys quieted as she raised the volume on the speaker she’d set beside her laptop. After a few moments of static, the unfamiliar voice of the duck from St. Canard began emanating from it . 

_ “I can’t believe you made us come here, Launchpad!” _

 

* * *

 

“I’m serious! The calorie count in the fries  _ alone _ —” 

Launchpad laughed at the contorted expression of disgust on Drake’s face as they set their trays down on a table. 

“Hey, it was my turn to choose, DW!” Launchpad pointed out. “Besides, you made us go to that vegan place last time.”

“It wasn’t vegan,” Drake corrected, inspecting his burger with trepidation, “I just made you get a salad. You need to start eating better, LP.”

Launchpad had delved into his burger with gusto, and he made an affronted sound around the massive bite he’d taken. “It’s not like I come here all the time!” he insisted once he’d swallowed. 

Drake grinned incredulously as he raised his burger to his beak. “Launchpad, the cashier knew you by  _ name _ .”

Launchpad took a bigger bite of his burger in lieu of answering, and Drake rolled his eyes. After a moment he began tentatively eating his burger too. 

“Well I’m telling you, LP, the commute from St. Canard never gets easier,” Drake said, easily changing the subject.

“They’ve got us packed wall to wall like sardines on those trains, and    _ every single time  _ I end up trapped next to some lady with a baby, or some weirdo who tries starting a  _ conversation  _ with me! It’s absolutely unbearable, why, it’s practically  _ criminal _ !”

Launchpad snorted, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “A true champion of the people, eh, DW?”

“Doesn’t mean I have to  _ like  _ being around the masses,” Drake retorted primly, handing him a napkin. 

Launchpad chuckled, laying his hand over Drake’s. “Babe, you know I appreciate you waking up before eleven and braving the E Line to come meet me for lunch.”

 

* * *

 

“He’s on a  _ date _ !” Dewey sputtered, “That’s  _ all  _ this was?” 

Louie was slumped over with laughter, in danger of falling off the bench altogether. 

“We can still learn about Launchpad through his boyfriend!” Huey tried to reason optimistically.  

Webby stared at her complicated setup in disappointment. “Well...I guess. But I was hoping for...I don’t know, more mystery? A mysterious stranger from Launchpad’s mysterious past? This is _really_...”

“Normal,” Huey finished for Webby with a sympathetic nod. “And some things  _ are  _ just  _ normal _ , Webby. Not everything’s a big mystery to be uncovered.”

“But how can we be sure?” Webby insisted. 

“We heard them,” Huey pointed out. 

At the same time, Dewey groaned, “Now they’re holding  _ hands _ !”

“Oh man, this is  _ great _ ,” Louie crowed blissfully, out of breath from laughing so hard. 

“Should we pack it up?” Huey asked Webby while Dewey continued to make gagging noises as they were forced to listen to their pilot, chauffeur, and friend go on a date. 

Webby was quiet for a few moments, fiddling with a lock of her hair. She looked over at Hamburger Hippo across the street, where Launchpad and the mysterious “DW” were barely visible. Eventually, she shook her head.

“No, let’s see where this goes,” she said, “if nothing else, we’ve learned Launchpad has a boyfriend!”

 

* * *

 

Drake rolled his eyes, but his small smile belied any apathy behind the action. “You’re just lucky I prefer your company over old reruns of  _ Pelican’s Island _ .” 

“The luckiest,” Launchpad beamed, and squeezed Drake’s hand. 

The shorter duck glanced away, flustered and flattered in equal measure. With him distracted, Launchpad used his free hand to grab a handful of Drake’s fries. 

“What— _ hey _ !” Drake cried, shaking off Launchpad’s hand. “I swear, you’re as bad as Gos.”

Launchpad returned, chuckling, to the last of his burger. “Oh, speaking of Gos,” he began, “you saw the note I left on the fridge this morning, right?”

Drake nodded, guarding his fries with one hand. “Yeah, Gos’ hockey game next friday. You’ll be in town, won’t you?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world!” Launchpad assured, “Already told Mr. McDee I’d be indisposed and everything.” 

“Good,” Drake said with a smile, “I know Gos was hoping you’d make it.”

Launchpad’s own smile became a touch rueful. “Yeah, who woulda guessed  _ I’d  _ be the one missing games and movie nights when you’re the head honcho.”

“Hey,” Drake cajoled, his naturally sharp intonation gentling. He clasped one of Launchpad’s arms, folded on the table. “We’re partners in crime, remember? I mean, yeah, I’m  _ far _ more important, but—”

Launchpad shoved him away laughing. “Har har, I get it, Mr. Big Shot. Just remember who was in the business before you!”

Drake rolled his eyes again, crossing his arms. “Oh  _ of course _ , the ever elusive Double-O-Duck, how could I forget? Maybe if you  _ talked  _ about it more often—”

A shrill chiming sound silenced them both, and they stiffened in their seats. 

Drake fished the source of the sound, a cell phone, out of his pocket and began tapping at it briskly. The phone itself was slim and nondescript save for its dark purple color. 

Though he remained quiet, Launchpad watched Drake’s expression keenly, increasingly on alert as it hardened. 

“Someone’s got ears on us,” Drake muttered, his gaze sharp as flint. “Just picked up on it. Their encryption’s pretty good.”

Without further prompting, Launchpad ducked under the table. After a brief onceover, he found the small recording device wedged behind a table leg and yanked it free. He rose again and showed it to Drake. 

They briefly shared a look, before Launchpad threw it to the ground and crushed it under his heel. 

 

* * *

 

The four children exchanged wide-eyed, bewildered glances in the ensuing crackle of static. In their shock they were silent, disbelieving, and the static seemed to overcome all other sound in the area. 

Their speaker continued to hiss loudly as Dewey glanced back over at the Hamburger Hippo, only to duck down rapidly. “They’re looking over here!” he whispered loudly, and with that the spell was broken. 

Webby quickly shut off the speaker, and snapped her laptop shut. 

“We’ve gotta move!” she hissed at the three boys still standing stock-still, feverishly packing up her equipment. 

“Are we just  _ not going to talk about _ what just happened?” Louie sputtered incredulously. 

“They knew we were listening,” Huey muttered softly. “They had high tech stuff, like  _ us _ .”

Webby’s tone was almost airy when she replied, “ _ Way _ more high tech than us, actually. Dewey, you said you saw him take out a cell phone?”

Dewey blinked. “Uh, yeah. It was purple,” he added. 

“Before they destroyed the bug, this guy, ‘DW’, he mentioned something...‘Double Duck’?” Huey contemplated aloud, more to himself than anyone else. He watched Webby swiftly but carefully fill the backpack and duffel bag they’d brought with their equipment. 

Dewey rose slowly with the binoculars once more, looking back over at Hamburger Hippo. 

“Guys!” he cried, “they’re on the move!”

“We have to follow them!” Webby announced, though she didn’t cease her frenetic packing. “Where are they headed?”

“Um…” said Dewey, “it looks like they’ve split up!”

“DW’s gotta be our priority,” Huey decided, “Webby, you go! You’re the best at this sort of thing!”

Webby nodded decisively, hopping off the bench. “Okay! Louie, come with me!”

“What!” Louie cried, nearly spilling his soda, “I thought I was only here to supervise!”

She pulled him by the hood of his sweatshirt, and the youngest nephew complied with a grumble. “Which way did he go?” she asked of Huey and Dewey. 

“He went right!” Dewey said quickly. 

“On Orchard!” Huey added. 

Webby and Louie dashed out of the Birdy’s lot, with the former leading the way. They reached the sidewalk just in time to catch a flash of a green sweater vest turn around a corner, and the duo followed doggedly. 

“What’re we even gonna do if we catch this guy?” Louie demanded, slightly out of breath. “What if he’s, like, a ninja or something? A ninja disguised as someone’s weird uncle.”

“We’ll just have to corner him and make him talk!” Webby declared confidently, not even a little winded. 

“That’s a  _ terrible  _ plan!”

They turned the corner to see the strange duck hurrying down the sidewalk at least thirty feet ahead, a few dozen pedestrians between them and him. 

Dodging around strollers and couples with excuse me’s and pardon us’s, the crowd cleared enough for Webby and Louie to see their elusive target duck into an alley.

“We’ve got him now!” Webby said excitedly. 

Louie was too out of breath to offer a retort, and they rushed toward the shadowed opening. 

“There’s nowhere left to run!” Webby proclaimed as they burst into the dark alley. 

Graffitied and garbage strewn, it was the perfect spot to corner a suspicious stranger. But beside an overflowing dumpster, they found it completely empty. 

“ _ What… _ ?” Webby murmured disbelievingly.

“ _ Guh _ ...we must’ve missed him,” Louie gasped for breath, propping himself up with his hands against his knees. 

Webby shook her head hesitantly. “But I was positive I saw him turn here…”

A shadow fell over them, and a voice that was no longer so unfamiliar boomed, “ _ Aha _ ! There’s  _ nowhere  _ left to—what the?”

“ _ Wak _ !” Louie cried out in surprise, clutching at his chest. 

Webby only jumped a little at the sudden intrusion, and both ducklings turned to face the mysterious DW standing over them. 

The duck’s arms were akimbo and his expression fierce, but within moments the harsh lines softened into incredulity. 

“You’re just a couple of _ kids _ ,” he huffed, looking confused and angry. “This can’t be—were you two  _ following  _ me?” 

“What? No!” Louie said quickly. “My sister and I were just looking for our-our dog! We thought we saw him run in here.”

DW’s eyes narrowed minutely, and there was no little amount of suspicion in his voice when he spoke again. “And you didn’t see anyone  _ else  _ who might’ve been in a hurry?”

Louie shrugged nonchalantly. “Hey, it’s a busy street! Everyone looks like they’re in a hurry.”

“Yeah, yeah,” the older duck muttered distractedly, glancing over his shoulder. “Well if you find your dog, try not letting it run off again. There  _ are  _ leash laws, y’know.” 

He marched away, and both Louie and Webby sighed in relief once he’d vanished from the mouth of the alley. 

“That was close,” Louie muttered. 

Webby nodded, but  _ already  _ Louie could practically see the gears turning in her head. He waited with dread for when she looked back at him, and the excited, driven look in her eyes he knew to expect. 

“We’ve got our work cut out for us, Louie,” Webby declared.   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you thought of this chapter! It was my first time writing DW, I hope I did him justice


	4. Birnam Wood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Webby and Dewey's conspiracy corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, I hope you enjoy this chapter! It's got plenty of the kiddos, and Scrooge will be making a comeback next chapter. 
> 
> If you want to hear me talk about Ducktales and almost nothing else, check out my podcast Amores Patos on iTunes, Google Play, and Libsyn! My best friend and I are recapping every episode of DT 2017, and soon the first episode of Darkwing Duck! You can check out our tumblr @amorespatospodcast!

 

 

“Okay. So what do we know?”

Webby turned her desk lamp so it shined bright in Huey and Louie’s faces. Both brothers cried out in surprise and shielded their eyes.

“That you have a flair for the dramatic?” Louie retorted as Huey pushed the lamp away.

“Correct,” Webby said, “but not the point!”

All four of them were gathered in Webby’s bedroom, the door locked, curtains drawn and save for the lamp, all the lights had been turned off. Huey and Louie were sitting on the ground, with Webby and Dewey standing before them. Webby had set up a projector in front of her usual McDuck (conspiracy) informational board, though she'd yet to pull down the projector screen. The images from the projector were jumbled and unintelligible, bisecting the photographs and lists already on Webby's cork board. 

It had been three days since their stakeout at Hamburger Hippo, and they were left embroiled in a deeper mystery than they ever could’ve imagined.

“Dewey, if you please!” Webby announced.

Standing at the ready, Dewey saluted once jumping up to pull down the projector screen. This finally made the images being projected visible, exchanging Webby's expansive, obsessive compendium of the McDuck family tree for something equally convoluted and detailed.

There were photographs and lists, questions written out in bold marker, all tied together in a massive web expanding outward. And everything led back to one thing: a photograph of their resident pilot and chauffeur, grinning blithely at the camera.

“What do we know?” Dewey said, “more like what _don’t_ we know?”

“Don’t you guys think this is going a little overboard?” Huey said practically.

“Huey,” Webby said seriously, “we might’ve uncovered a mystery that’s been going on right under our _beaks!_ You heard what went down at Hamburger Hippo! You _know_ something isn’t right.”

Huey rubbed his arm. “I...I guess,” he responded more hesitantly.

Louie shrugged, his hands deep in the pockets of his hoodie. “To be honest, this is all just creeping me out a little too much. Also, I was promised refreshments if I brought Huey.”

Webby reached into her nearby backpack and pulled out a can of Pep.

Louie took it eagerly, taking a long, loud sip. “Alright, carry on.”

“Webby, if you would?” Dewey asked, gesturing for her to take the lead.

She nodded once, sharp and professional once more. Fishing a telescopic pointer out of her pocket, she extended it in one quick movement, and _thwacked_ the tip against the center of the screen.

“This entire investigation has been centered around _one_ thing, _one_ question,” she started seriously, using her pointer to tap the pilot’s image. “Who _is_ Launchpad McQuack?”

“What do we know about him?” Dewey said, equally serious. “He’s a pilot, and not a very good one. He has a second job he never talks about. He’s from St. Canard. And then there’s this ‘DW’.”

“A whole other can of worms,” Webby agreed. “Originally thought to be Launchpad’s boyfriend, his connection to ‘DW’ might actually run deeper than we could’ve imagined.” She looked to Huey specifically. “Do you remember their conversation before they cut us off?”

Louie shrugged, but Huey nodded pensively.

“Yeah,” he said, “Launchpad made it seem like 'DW’ was, like, almost his boss or something? And DW _—_ that has to be _code_ for something right? Like that last thing he said, uh...Double-O-Duck!”

Webby nodded. “We think that their entire conversation, up to when they detected us, was in code.”

“It all ties together,” Dewey said excitedly, “Launchpad's second job is a cover for whatever he’s doing with DW. It’s the key to everything!”

“What’s _‘it,'_ exactly?" Louie asked.

“That’s what we’re trying to answer!” Webby said.

Huey shook his head, slowly at first, and then with resolve. “I _—no_ , no, this is ridiculous! There isn’t some big _conspiracy._  We just heard a conversation out of context! Launchpad is a perfectly _normal_ duck. Or, _moderately_ normal, I guess.”

“Death to the nonbeliever,” Louie muttered under his breath, and laughed when Huey glared at him.

But Webby shook her head too, expression apologetic.

Dewey, on the other hand, was practically bouncing in place. His expression was a war of trepidation and excitement. “Huey, Launchpad _isn’t_ a normal duck,” he said, “Not when Launchpad McQuack doesn’t even _exist .”_

As Huey gaped, Louie whispered, “Ooh, plot twist!”

“Doesn’t exist _—how?”_ Huey asked. 

Webby began to explain. “Dewey and I dug a little deeper after we saw that Launchpad wasn’t anywhere on social media. There’s literally no record of him, _anywhere at all_. Not until he started piloting for Scrooge does his name start showing up.”

Webby passed her pointer over to Dewey, and hurried over to the projector. She changed the slide to a new photograph, one of three ducks in aviator outfits.

Dewey used the pointer to gesture emphatically at this photograph. “This is the closest we came to finding out where Launchpad came from: The Flying McQuacks, a family of airshow pilots!” he announced.

“Well there you go,” Huey said, looking relieved.

Dewey raised a finger dramatically, asking for silence. “Ripcord, Birdy, and Loopy McQuack," he said, and he paused for effect. "No Launchpad. They don’t even _have_ a son.”

“A coincidence then!” Huey tried.

“Pretty weird coincidence, if you ask me,” Louie offered.

“ _Exactly_  !” Webby said emphatically. “Everything _about_ Launchpad is a weird coincidence! There’s a family of ace airshow pilots with the last name McQuack, but Launchpad’s in no way related. Launchpad claims he has a second job, but it doesn’t seem to exist either _—”_

“Didn’t ol’ Launchpad say something about having a security gig at a mall?” Louie interrupted with some skepticism, more alert than he’d been at the start of their meeting.

Dewey shook his head. “We called mall security! No employee named Launchpad McQuack has ever worked there before.”

“ _—_ and yet no one’s questioned him about it,” Webby went on as if she hadn’t been interrupted. "Not my Granny, not Uncle Scrooge. Launchpad lives in St. Canard, the city with the third highest crime rate in the country. He meets ‘DW’ for what looks like a date, but at the same time acts like he’s his boss. They have advanced technology, and use code names.”

Huey shook his head. “Will someone please just tell me what exactly we’re accusing Launchpad _of?”_

Webby sighed. “Huey…”

“Guys,” Dewey spoke up, more solemn than any of his siblings, honorary or otherwise, had ever seen him. He was clutching the pointer with both hands.

“I’ve never seen Launchpad look as serious he did when he found out he was being bugged,” he admitted quietly. “I wanted to learn more about Launchpad because he said I was his best friend, but...whatever we’ve uncovered is too big, even for me.”

The three other ducklings looked on in surprise as perhaps the most adventurous and devil-may-care of the four of them looked away, quiet and drawn.

“What’re you saying, Dewey?” Huey asked, looking on the verge of jumping up and giving his brother a hug.   

Dewey seemed to steel himself before their eyes, and his familiar cocky grin returned. “I’m saying we need to work _together_ on this! Like Webby said, there’s a mystery going on right under our beaks, and we’re the only ones who’ve noticed it!”

Webby and Louie seemed to have taken Dewey’s proclamation to heart, standing with eager, determined expressions, but still Huey wavered.

“The mystery of Launchpad McQuack?” the oldest triplet asked dubiously. “I know what we heard, but doesn’t it seem a little too far-fetched? This is _Launchpad_ we’re talking about. The guy who thought it was a good idea to stage a revolution around Mexican food. They guy who thought mole monsters were real, and that he _was_ one!” Huey crossed his arms. “I just...I don’t think there’s anything else _there."_

Louie leaned toward Huey with closed eyes and and a serious air as he recited, “You know Huey, once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable—”

“Don’t you quote Arthur Conan Dove at _me!”_ Huey retorted.

“I think that’s the _point_ _,_ Huey,” Webby replied, quickly intervening before the oldest and youngest triplet completely derailed the conversation. “On the surface, it doesn’t seem like there’s much to Launchpad beyond what we see every day. But with just a little digging, that all falls apart! He’s exchanging coded messages at Hamburger Hippo, lying about a second job, and doesn’t even seem to technically _exist."_

Huey was quiet for a drawn-out moment, staring long and hard at the expansive board before them, its notes and clues carefully plotted out.“I think…” he said carefully, “that we should start looking at St. Canard. What do you have, Webby, Dewey?”

Webby squealed excitedly, and Dewey wasn’t far behind, but Louie’s expression was one of amused disbelief.

“Wait, you’re actually buying into this?” he exclaimed, already pulling out his cell phone. “I gotta immortalize this moment!”

Making sure Huey was in the shot, Louie winked, threw up a peace sign, and took a selfie. “The sky is falling down,” he read aloud as he typed, “my dearest brother is buying into a conspiracy theory. All hope is lost.”

“I wanna be part of this moment too!” Dewey cried.

“ _Later!"_ Webby said. “We’re talking about the third most dangerous city in the country right now!”

“Oh, right.”

“ _Ahem,"_  Webby cleared her throat, holding out her hand for the pointer Dewey was still holding.

The middle nephew passed it back with a small start.

“So, St. Canard!” Webby announced dramatically. “What do we know?”

“It’s the one city Uncle Donald will never accept a job in!” Louie said.

"Their crime rate is off the charts," Huey said, "there's kingpins and mob bosses all over the place and ridiculous crimes being committed all the time!" 

“It’s the home of Darkwing Duck!” Dewey exclaimed, to the annoyed groans his brothers.

Huey rubbed his temples. “Dewey, I’m willing to put with _one_ crackpot idea, and I'm happy to stick with ‘Launchpad is leading a double life,’ not ‘there’s a real life vigilante secretly wailing on St. Canard’s criminal underworld’.”

 _"Darkwing Duck_ is a crackpot idea?" Dewey retorted defensively, "what about that light bulb factory that was robbed? How's that not crackpot?"

"The factory was _actually_ robbed!" Huey said, "St. Canard is known for weird crimes like that! And for drummed up stories about some weirdo in a mask!" 

Webby raised her hands, trying to placate the brothers before their fight could become more heated. “I’m almost positive that ‘Darkwing Duck’ is a myth. Sightings started about five years ago, but there hasn’t been a shred of definitive proof.”

She went back to the projector to switch to a slide of a blurry newspaper article. “But Launchpad called the stranger ‘DW’, and while it may be a coincidence, I think this might mean there’s some truth to the myth.”

“Like what?” Louie asked. “If Darkwing Duck the person doesn’t exist, then…”

“Maybe it’s more than one person,” Huey finished the thought.

“We won’t know until we investigate more thoroughly,” Webby replied decisively, folding her pointer back into its original pen shape.

Their meeting seeming to come to a close, Huey rose to his feet and Louie went back to his phone. Webby turned off the projector, throwing the room into almost complete darkness.

Dewey spoke up again. “But guys...what does this mean for Launchpad?”

All three of his siblings paused in what they were doing, looking over at the duckling who looked like he’d come to a profoundly disturbing realization. The energy he'd demonstrated during the presentation had fled, all humor regarding the matter they were investigating swiftly sucked out. Reality had come for Dewey with all the speed and force of a freight train. 

With one hand on the blank projector screen, Dewey stood with furrowed brow and nearly ashen pallor. “He’s always warning us not to go to St. Canard. I mean...he cares about us, right?” For all that Dewey’s words should've inspired confidence, his voice was quiet and unsure.

The others exchanged an hesitant glance.

“I think,” Huey began softly, laying his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “We need to be careful. There’s too much we don’t know, and too much he isn’t telling us. We have to think about Uncle Donald and Uncle Scrooge.”

“So you’re saying we can’t _trust_ Launchpad?” Dewey replied incredulously, helplessness bleeding into his tone.

Neither Huey nor any of his siblings had an answer.   
  



	5. Inkling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scrooge notices. He notices and he worries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really have an excuse for this chapter being so late, other than very acute writer's block. I want to thank everyone who stuck it out, and apologize for this chapter taking so long!  
> This chapter will unfortunately be a little short and slow, but the following one will be much more action packed!

  
  


Scrooge knew something was wrong from the moment they boarded the plane. 

Before then even, as his nephews and honorary niece filed into the limousine with less than half of their usual enthusiasm. They’d been subdued on the drive to the airfield, subdued  in the days leading up to their departure, despite the frenetic energy and exuberance they demonstrated when Scrooge first told them of their destination. 

Exploring the Caves of Culebra was something all four ducklings had been looking forward to since Scrooge announced his plans nearly a month ago. The caves were said to be a crumbling deathtrap, and cursed to boot, but there was  _ also  _ said to be gold inlaid in the walls and an entire room composed of diamonds. 

So Scrooge trusted his gut and the tingling in his toes* , and decided that an expedition to the caves would be a good, and potentially lucrative, learning experience for the kids. 

They were sidetracked by a brief sojourn to Peruvia, and then Scrooge got roped into a week of tedious board meetings, formal dinners, lunches, and brunches. It almost made him miss being a recluse no self-respecting businessperson wanted to interact with, much less be seen with. 

But then he would return to a mansion no longer as silent and oppressive as a tomb, instead full of noise and organized chaos and family. He got hit with more plastic darts than he used to, but he supposed it was a fair trade for a new lease on life. 

In the end they didn’t leave for their eagerly-awaited expedition until nearly a month after Scrooge’s announcement, and something critical had changed during that time. 

Though their excitement for the trip hadn’t waned, all four of them seemed more wary, suspicious, and jumpy whenever he encountered them. A perplexing juxtaposition to be sure, but the only way Scrooge could properly describe the way his niece and nephews seemed to tiptoe around the mansion, and end conversations abruptly when someone else entered the room. 

In any other circumstance Scrooge would’ve chalked up their clandestine behavior to classic childhood mischief, perhaps a prank they were planning or a covert adventure of their own. It certainly wouldn’t be a first. But something felt wrong about that easy assumption, something he couldn’t quite pin down.  

For the entire week that Scrooge was flooded with tedious meetings, the four ducklings had taken up nearly every second of his free time by peppering him questions about Launchpad. They asked about the pilot’s history, whereabouts, and origins, in a way that would have almost seemed casual if they weren’t  _ all  _ doing it. 

And despite Scrooge’s own concerns regarding Launchpad, he told them very little. A man’s secrets were his own, and if Launchpad wanted the kids to know about his personal life he would tell them. 

Scrooge’s one concession was in letting them know the name of the horrendous fast food joint Launchpad often frequented, and that was only because the pilot had come into work with bandages on the side of his neck and a chipper excuse at the ready, and Scrooge’s worry overrode his common sense. 

But almost the very next day, the children’s demeanor changed completely. They abruptly became closed off, quiet, and secretive, and stopped pestering Scrooge with questions altogether. They basically stopped being underfoot in all the ways Scrooge had just started getting used to, and maybe found a little endearing. 

And he couldn’t help but think this all had something to do with Launchpad. 

However, Scrooge also hadn’t ruled out the possibility that this was all just in his head.

It had been some time since he’d willingly been around children, since Donald and Della were ducklings themselves, in fact. As much as he was loath to admit, it  _ was  _ possible that he was simply out of practice. After all,  _ Donald  _ didn’t seem to acknowledge the change, but maybe that had more to do with his new job than anything else. 

His nephew had begun working late as a taxi driver downtown, and was often roped into working graveyard shifts. He’d be gone most nights, returning to the mansion before the boys left for school to make them breakfast and see them off, before sleeping the rest of the day in his houseboat. 

In any event, Scrooge’s relationship with his nephew was still less than perfect, and the less they interacted the better, really. He liked to pretend this didn’t weigh heavily on his mind. 

Beakley was was of even less help, if that were possible. She’d been called away on business, a rare occurrence in of itself. It was one of those things about Beakley that no matter her loyalty to him, she would never tell him where she went or what was discussed. 

So Beakley wasn’t around to offer insight into the children’s behavior or point out the obvious . That if he was so worried why didn’t he just ask them himself. But of course Beakley wasn’t around to bully him into the latter, so he was left to stew in his own paranoia in the days leading up to their departure. Though it was a mire of his own making, try as he might Scrooge couldn’t help looking past it. 

Because something was  _ wrong _ . Something was wrong, and Scrooge didn’t know what to do about it. 

He reached his breaking point the morning before they intended to leave for Culebra, as Launchpad drove him to the Money Bin. 

Launchpad was chattering at him from the front seat as usual, as he careened recklessly down the street. If his one-sided conversation sounded more forced, or overly cheery, Scrooge wouldn’t have known because it was all static to his ears. 

As someone propelled by dogged determination, who thrived in navigating life or death situations, Scrooge was wholly unqualified and unprepared to deal with children. And if they were anyone else, this wouldn’t be a problem. But these were his bairns, who were so new to his life but already so important to him, even if he was occasionally awkward in his affection. 

He was responsible for them more often than not, which was why he was so unsettled by their change in demeanor: the secrecy, agitation, and abrupt silence.

All too soon, Launchpad was pulling into the parking garage. But Scrooge hesitated, not exiting the limo. He stayed where he was, clutching his cane in a white-knuckled grip. 

“Mr. McDee?” Launchpad prompted. He was looking back at Scrooge with a concerned expression —a rare sight, when it came to Launchpad. 

“Launchpad,” Scrooge began slowly, pride making the words stick at the back of his throat. 

Launchpad mercifully remained silent, allowing Scrooge the time to force the words past his teeth. 

“Have you noticed anything... _ different _ about the children recently?” Scrooge asked, piecemeal and grating, but he got it out at last. 

For a moment, Launchpad was very still.

“I was hoping you could tell me, boss,” he said, chuckling but apologetic. “Maybe they’ve just been planning for tomorrow? I mean, exploring Culebra’s a pretty big deal. Have you asked them?”

It had taken Scrooge everything in him to ask for help in the first place, however indirectly. Embarrassment and pride bubbled up within him, and he loudly cleared his throat. 

“Aye, aye, I’m sure it’s that,” Scrooge said, though he doubted he was convincing. He quickly climbed out of the limo, as if Launchpad would call him on the lie if he stayed any longer. “Now remember, Launchpad,” he started to say once he’d closed the door behind him. 

“Six o’clock on the dot,” Launchpad finished for him with a smile. “I’ll be here, Mr. McDee!”

Launchpad’s geniality brought a familiar smile to his face, but did little to banish the uneasiness in his gut. Even a day later the feeling persisted, as Scrooge strapped himself into a seat in preparation for takeoff. 

The four ducklings were talking amongst themselves, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was seeing their attempt at normalcy, rather than the real thing. But there was nothing for it now. The  _ Sunchaser’s  _ powerful engines rumbled to life, and soon they would be speeding along the runway. 

Scrooge would just have to bring his misgivings along for the ride. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Ducktales IDW Issue 7   
> Scrooge: “I should’ve known [there was buried gold] by the tingling in my toes!”


	6. In Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pride goeth before a fall

 

The entrance to the Cave of Culebra was a deep dark hole in a ridged wall of stone, in a desert Dewey had forgotten the name of. 

They’d landed in a flat expanse, surrounded by rocks that jutted upward in increasing size until they formed mountains. Coarse red sand stretched as far as the eye could see, and it stuck to their feet and their clothes and their feathers, tinging them all orange as they trekked behind Scrooge. 

Dewey was struck by the stillness of the desert. He lagged behind his family, lingering in the blistering, oppressive heat under the shade of a sunhat Huey had forced on them all. 

Red desert unfolded around him in every direction, going on for miles past the bright wavy lines of rising heat. It contrasted sharply against the brilliant blue sky, the colors so dichotomous they were nearly otherworldly. 

Besides the voices of his family, steadily fading away from him, there wasn’t a single sound or soul in the desert. There wasn’t even any wind. Dewey felt very small in a silence so complete. 

“We better get a move on, Dewey!”

Launchpad’s cheerful declaration was jarring, casually shattering the desert’s alien quietude. 

Dewey met Launchpad’s exclamation with one of his own, his heart leaping into his throat with a “ _ Wak! _ ” He nearly stumbled in his rush to turn around, and when he straightened his sunhat he saw Launchpad staring down at him in concern and confusion. 

“You okay, little buddy?” Launchpad asked. He had the backpack carrying their gear slung over his shoulders, as well as a long length of neon rope. Behind him, the  _ Sunchaser  _ blended into the desert landscape, her white belly already stained red. 

“The sun isn’t already getting to you, is it?” Launchpad went on. He chuckled, “Here I was thinking your Uncle Donald was crazy for making me pack so many bottles of water —”

“I  _ get  _ it, Launchpad, it’s  _ hot _ _!”_ Dewey snapped agitatedly. He felt a pang in his chest at the expression of hurt that flickered briefly across the pilot’s face, but turned away just the same. “Come on, we’d better catch up.”

“Right behind you, Dewey,” Launchpad replied, more subdued now. 

Guilt simmered low in Dewey’s stomach not unlike the red sand sizzling under the sun. But after  _ everything _ —everything regarding the conversation they’d overheard at Hamburger Hippo, and the mountain of questions that followed and continued to grow—Dewey knew that there was more to Launchpad than any of them could have ever expected, and that he lied about it  _ constantly _ .

Learning Scrooge McDuck was their great-uncle had been the single greatest thing to ever happen to Dewey. Within moments he was envisioning the daring, worldwind adventures that he and Scrooge would embark on, starstruck with the notion of being related to a duck of legend. Finally, he would have a family member who could match him in boundless enthusiasm, who was everything he ever wanted to be. He was disillusioned in short order. 

The marble room was disappointing, but still he held out hope. Family was family, after all. 

Or in Scrooge’s words, nothing but trouble. 

Learning Scrooge wanted nothing to do with them felt less like a slap to the face and more of an inevitable conclusion. They didn’t exactly have the best track record when it came to family. 

Gladstone popped in and out of their lives when it suited him, leaving gleaming, gilded memories of his brief visits. Their own mother vanished like she’d never existed. Donald was the only family who would never leave them, and for all that he could be overbearing, his love was absolute. 

In the brief moments Dewey thought Scrooge was a fraud, he’d resolved to just go back to the marble room and wait for their Uncle Donald to pick them up. Why bother getting to know family who didn’t even remember your name?

But of course it was all real,  _ really  _ real, and he got to adventure with Scrooge after all. But it was nothing like Dewey had envisioned (he would learn that almost nothing with Scrooge was), frustrating and perilous in equal measure. Even after Scrooge began listening to him and respecting him, even after the handful of adventures that followed, Dewey carried a chip on his shoulder that still resounded with  _ Bluey?  _ and  _ family is nothing but trouble _ . He loved his Uncle Scrooge, but a part of him still hadn’t forgiven him. 

In contrast to Scrooge’s oftentimes mercurial nature, Launchpad’s friendship was freely given, his simplicity a balm where everything in Dewey’s life had been uprooted and turned on its head. Dewey didn’t know why Launchpad warmed up to him over his brothers, or even all three of them at the same time, as they tended to come as a package deal. But it had seemed that whatever the reason, Dewey was the one Launchpad invited over to watch old cartoons from the ‘90s, who was given advice without it being repetitive or condescending. 

Dewey had never been someone’s best friend before. He’d found he liked the feeling. 

But where learning Scrooge’s opinion of them had been disappointing but unsurprising, learning that they maybe didn’t know  _ anything  _ about Launchpad felt like a betrayal. 

Dewey confided in Launchpad in ways he couldn’t with his brothers. He felt safe voicing his worries and insecurities, especially as the mystery of what happened to his mother proved ever daunting. Launchpad would profess, “your secret’s safe with me until the day I die! Maybe even longer!” and Dewey would feel a little bit better. 

All of that changed when goofy, lovable, idiotic Launchpad crushed their listening device beneath his heel with an expression so grave he could almost be mistaken for a stranger. 

Dewey followed the path of disturbed sand his family had left behind, and in a handful of moments he began hearing Scrooge’s pontificating grow louder and louder. 

“—very important that we stay together!” Scrooge was saying to Webby and his brothers. “Dewey. Launchpad. It’s about time you joined us.” He glanced over at them as they approached. “We don’t have time for dawdling, lads!”

“Sorry, Mr. McDee!” Launchpad replied cheerily, “I got a just got a little lost! Everything looks the same around here. Dewey helped me find my way back.”

Dewey stiffened but remained silence. Launchpad was lying  _ again _ , right in front of him! And if he hadn’t known the truth, he would’ve believed him! Webby and his brothers and Scrooge certainly did. How many other times had Launchpad lied straight to their faces?

“As I was saying,” Scrooge went on. 

“Stay together, don’t wander off,” Louie said, frowning down at his cell phone, which likely didn’t have any bars. 

“Keep our hard hats on at all times!” Huey added brightly. 

“And don’t touch anything,” Webby said. 

Scrooge rolled his eyes, but a smile belied his annoyance. “Aye. these caves are thousands of years old, and prone to collapsing. We must exercise extreme caution if we’re to get ahold of any of Culebra’s treasure. Is that understood?”

All but Dewey bobbed their heads eagerly. Webby was hopping from foot to foot, Louie had put his phone away and had stars in his eyes at the mention of treasure, and Huey held his JWG tightly in his hand. 

“Launchpad, the hard hats, if you please,” Scrooge said. 

“You got it,” Launchpad replied, flipping his huge backpack around so it hung on his chest. “Think fast Webby, Huey, Louie!” he said, tossing them each a hard hat with startling accuracy. He handed Scrooge one, then strapped his own over his baseball hat. 

“And I wouldn’t think of forgetting my best friend!” Launchpad smiled, plopping Dewey’s hard hat onto his head crookedly. 

When Launchpad went to straighten it, Dewey batted his hands away. “I got it,” he said quietly, if sharply. 

He resolutely ignored Launchpad’s startled expression and went to join his siblings at the cave entrance. It loomed before them, a black hole against the crimson stone, like a gaping wound in the mountain. 

“Onward,” Scrooge announced, pointing into the deep dark with his cane. “Treasure waits for no duck or beast!”

Dewey, swallowing his reservations and definitely  _ not  _ looking at Launchpad's worried expression, followed his great-uncle into blackness. 

  
  


The Cave of Culebra took them straight down, winding deeper and deeper into the earth as if to reach its very core. Contrary to the heat of the desert, the temperature in the tunnels cooled with every step they took, until it bordered on frigid. So much so that Dewey and his siblings had to change into their puffy, insulated jackets to avoid hypothermia. 

Under the beams of their flashlights the tunnel walls were a dark blue, heavily pitted and pockmarked. Portions of the ceiling crumbled intermittently. Every twenty feet or so there were jagged holes in the floor, like missing pieces of a jigsaw, which on closer inspection more closely resembled bottomless pits. 

Scrooge explained that the Cave of Culebra once housed more wealth than anywhere else in the world. Once a sacred place for gods whose names had been forgotten, the ground had been paved in platinum and gold, the walls inlaid with red diamond, taaffeite, alexandrite, and more. They passed over the crumbled remains of a stone archway that had once been interlaced with emerald and silver, and served as the true entrance for their gods. 

“You can thank treasure hunters past for Culebra’s current state,” Scrooge said scathingly, holding Huey’s hand as they skirted the rim of another hole in the ground. “They took every single piece of treasure they could get their hands on, not caring how much damage they caused.”

Louie kicked a small stone into the nearest pit. “So is there even anything left?”

“No one was ever able to reach the innermost sanctum,” Scrooge told them eagerly, “there’s been talk of deathtraps, curses, and the like afflicting those who tried. The cave also tends to become more unstable the deeper you venture.”

“Ooh, what kind of deathtraps?” Webby asked. “Are we talking bow and arrows?”

“Webby, that’s not the point!” Huey hissed. “Uncle Scrooge, what’s our likelihood of even  _ reaching  _ the inner sanctum?”

“Er,” Scrooge shone his flashlight on the ground ahead of him, so as to avoid plummeting into a hole in the ground. “Well it’s been fifty years since anyone was last here, so it’s anybody’s guess.”

“Let’s just keep going,” Dewey said shortly, hoping to forestall a longer debate. Launchpad had been hovering over his shoulder for the last half hour, it was grating on Dewey’s nerves. 

“That’s the spirit, lad!” Scrooge exclaimed, his smile a little too wide even for a treasure hunt. “We’ll go single file from this point on, the tunnel is said to get less stable the further in you get.”

They followed behind Scrooge: Huey, Louie, Webby, Dewey, and Launchpad in the rear. Each of them poised to help the one beside them in case of emergency. While Dewey would normally love to have Launchpad at his back, never wasting an opportunity to trade bad jokes back and forth, now he bristled at the shadow looming over him. 

The tunnel continued its downward slope, but the walls expanded outward and their pathway narrowed as the rest of the ground gave way to yawning chasms. Scrooge told them that this chamber was said to have been an enormous reflecting pool, and that the walls and ceiling were so inlaid with gemstones and precious metals that it gleamed with the brilliance of the midday sun. 

Ahead of Dewey, his family talked and joked like normal, though he listened with half an ear. Though they were all dedicated to their investigation of Launchpad, it hadn’t been as big a deal for Webby or his brothers. They didn’t fixate on it like Dewey did, just like he fixated on the mystery of what happened to his mother. The only difference between the two investigations was that Launchpad was very much alive. 

They reached the end of the chasm, and were faced with a jagged entrance that might have once been rounded and grand. Here, Huey, Scrooge, and Webby stopped to geek out over a series of fading inscriptions engraved in the stone. Louie plopped down beside them to take selfies, sporting the half-lidded expression that had made him pictagram famous. 

Dewey didn’t go far, but strayed closer to the edge. Before him the cavernous chamber dropped out to nothingness, and he was mindful not to get  _ too  _ close. For want of something to do, he picked up a few rocks, fallen fragments of the cave wall, and threw each of them as far as he could. 

The first few went out about a dozen feet before bouncing off the wall and plummeting into the dark. Dewey didn’t hear them hit the ground. 

He saw Launchpad join him out of the corner of his eye, but decided to act like he hadn’t noticed him. 

Launchpad grabbed a small handful of rocks as well, and began tossing them experimentally over the edge.  

Dewey threw a rock farther than he had any of the others, and Launchpad dropped the small collection of rocks he’d gathered in order to clap for him. 

“Nice one, bud!” Launchpad said, his smile bright if hesitant. He bent down and picked up one of the rocks he’d dropped, before holding it out to Dewey. “Think you can do that again?”

Sorely tempted to give into the familiarity of it all, Dewey reached out and took the rock from him. He looked up at Launchpad, his smile genuine and expression a little vacant, like usual, and Dewey wondered how much of it was an act. 

“Just watch me,” he declared, some of his usual bravado leeching back into his tone. 

 

By the time Scrooge, Webby and Huey have gotten over the inscription, their stone-throwing might’ve gotten a little out of hand. 

Dewey and Launchpad were issuing war cries as they launched their projectiles into the vast chamber, and their rowdiness wasn’t helped by Louie recording them to post later. He’d even gotten the idea to stick glow sticks to larger rocks with bubblegum and drop them off the edge. Louie took video of Dewey and Launchpad letting them go and with the light they were able to keep track of the stones as they fell, and were eventually swallowed by blackness. 

“Oi, lads,” Scrooge barked, “enough messing about! We’ve got treasure to uncover!”

Dewey paused, carrying a rock about as big as his head close to the edge. 

Louie was quick to rejoin the group, stashing his phone in his pocket before Scrooge could get too annoyed by its presence. 

“Right-o, Mr. McDee!” Launchpad replied.  

But Dewey fought against an irrational sense of disappointment. It felt like it had been forever since things felt normal, since being around Launchpad brought upon a sense of comfort rather than unease. With the reminder of the adventure, he too was reminded that Launchpad was not what he seemed. 

“You coming, little buddy?” Launchpad asked, turning back to look at him. 

Dewey backed up a step from the pilot, an action that could almost be mistaken for unconscious were it not for the immediate and rapid tattoo of his heart. Fighting off the irritating itch of guilt in the back of his throat, Dewey nodded only somewhat stiffly. 

He dropped the heavy rock he’d been carrying, and made to rejoin his family. A loud cracking sound stopped him in his tracks, and Dewey looked up at the ceiling to dodge the falling debris. But the cavernous ceiling remained still, and he realized that the sound had come from below him. 

“Dewey,” Scrooge said before he could look down. He locked eyes with his great-uncle’s, saw his carefully controlled expression. “Step towards us, lad,  _ slowly _ .”

Dewey glanced down and saw a spider web of cracks extending toward him from the cavern’s edge. 

“You got it,” he replied shakily, “I can do slow.”

Dewey took one step forward and the ground crackled and groaned even louder than before. 

“Or maybe I can’t,” he said jokingly, his laughter strained. 

“Dewey I need ye to stay calm,” Scrooge said. “One of us will make it over to you.”

Dewey’s heartbeat thundered in his ears, almost drowning out the sound of the crumbling rock beneath him. Both grew louder by the second, until they blended into the same sound.  _ Thump-crunch-thump-crunch.  _ He imagined falling, like the rocks they’d dropped, and continuing to fall, never hitting the bottom.

A shape appeared in his line of sight, a hand extended. 

Launchpad smiled at him from a few feet away, expression almost blank save for the furrow of his brows. 

It should have been a comfort. But Dewey felt paralyzed, his brain screaming  _ LIAR LIAR LIAR _ . The rock was falling out from under Dewey’s feet, and he couldn’t reach out to take Launchpad’s hand. 

Launchpad realized this in scant seconds, and his resulting expression was indescribable. He would have looked less gutted if Dewey had actually plunged a knife between his ribs. 

The rock beneath Dewey gave way, and he was in freefall for a half second that felt like it lasted minutes. No one had time to make a sound before Launchpad lunged forward, snagging Dewey by the front of his shirt and yanking him back over the edge. 

Launchpad leapt back at the same time, and Dewey ended up wrapped in his arms as he hit the ground hard on his back. 

Scrooge and his siblings raced over to them. Huey helped Launchpad sit up and Scrooge grabbed Dewey by the shoulders as Webby and Louie crowded around them. 

“Are you alright, lad?” Scrooge asked seriously. 

Dewey nodded shakily. “Y-yeah.”

“Good,” Scrooge said shortly. His face contorted into an expression of anger eerily reminiscent of Uncle Donald. “What were you  _ thinking  _ standing so close to the edge? Did you not get the part about this being a crumbling, thousand-year-old temple? You know better than that, Dewey!”

Despite the anger in his voice, Scrooge held Dewey close to his side in a one-armed hug. All the months they’d lived with him and Dewey didn’t think Scrooge had ever hugged him. It was...actually kind of nice, near-death experience notwithstanding. 

Scrooge looked from Dewey to the other children. “I think it’s best if we continue this adventure at a later date. The tunnel ahead is blocked of anyway.”

Dewey’s siblings murmured their agreement, their eyes still wide and worried, and Dewey felt a flood of relief. Scrooge left Dewey in their care as they clustered around him. 

Amidst their group hug, Dewey caught a brief glimpse of Launchpad sitting on the ground with his shoulders hunched and back facing them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for the late update! I'm on summer break now, so the next chapters should come much sooner <3
> 
> Let me know what you thought in the comments below!


	7. Entropy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the amazing response last chapter! You guys are awesome! 
> 
> Find me on [tumblr](http://mighty-ant.tumblr.com/)  
> Check out my DuckTales podcast [here](http://amorespatospodcast.libsyn.com/)

 

 

“You guys are back early.”

Rather than Scrooge’s housekeeper, it was his nephew who greeted them in the foyer. His head feathers were rumpled, likely from a nap he’d only just woken up from. 

After giving Webby and the boys a hug and sending them upstairs to get cleaned up, Donald waited for Scrooge with crossed arms and a question in the quirk of his brows. 

“Culebra caved in, and the tunnels were too unstable to traverse even if it hadn’t,” Scrooge said breezily. He longed to retire to his own rooms, however briefly, but Donald was standing at the base of the stairs, blocking his path. Scrooge didn’t think he could face his nephew’s critical gaze today, not when he couldn’t stop seeing Dewey’s expression of frozen fear as the ground gave way beneath him.

But then again, Donald was always more perceptive than Scrooge gave him credit for.

“Dewey seemed a little out of it,” Donald said, and it would’ve almost sounded casual if it weren’t for the note of warning he intended for Scrooge to hear. “Did something happen?”

“Ach, he was perfectly safe,” Scrooge replied, “thanks to Launchpad here. Eh, McQuack?” He glanced over his shoulder to where he expected to find his driver keeping pace with him. But Launchpad was nowhere in sight. “Er…”

Beakley bustled into the foyer then, her countenance harried but not a crease in her cardigan nor a hair out of place. 

“There you are,” she said, arms akimbo, “not only do you return a whole day early, but you barely give me two hours warning to prepare dinner for eight people? What on earth made you think I wouldn’t just leave you all to starve? Hm?” 

“Ah, apologies, Beakley,” Scrooge answered somewhat distractedly, still scanning the empty foyer as if expecting Launchpad to pop out from behind the umbrella stand.

“Our crash in Mexico City didn’t hinder us for as long as I thought it would. Launchpad had us up and running in short order. But the kids had tamales not three hours ago, so if you need to postpone dinner — ”

Beakley shook her head. “No, no, the shrimp scampi is just about done. And where  _ is  _ Launchpad? It was his turn to choose what we had for dinner.”

“Launchpad chose shrimp scampi?” Donald asked with a disbelieving smile. 

Beakley rolled her eyes with an answering smile. “He wasn’t nearly so specific. Launchpad asked for seafood, and left the rest up to me.”

“I’m sure he’ll join us soon, then,” Scrooge said, “Launchpad isn’t one to miss dinner if he can help it.”

“Right then,” Beakley said smartly, “dinner should be ready any minute.”

“I’ll get Webby and the boys,” Donald responded, and headed up the stairs. 

Beakley disappeared down the hall, leaving Scrooge alone in the foyer. He tapped his cane on the ground once, before walking over to the front door. He opened it and peered outside to find his limousine was no longer sitting in the driveway. 

 

Sitting down to dinner with his family was just one of the many small pleasures Scrooge had forgotten in the decade he spent in self-recriminating isolation. 

Often their dinners were spent trying to keep the children from climbing onto the table in their exuberance to reenact exploits from their latest adventure. They were characterized by loud conversation and stealing food off each others plates, and a warmth deep in his chest that he’d almost forgotten about. 

But tonight that warmth was little more than a flicker. 

Silence reigned at Scrooge’s dinner table once more, despite the family that surrounded him. His neice and nephews were quiet and withdrawn, as clustered together as their chairs allowed. They did little more than eat and exchange brief words every other minute. 

Dewey looked the worst of them, face tinged gray beneath his feathers, and doing little more than moving his food around on his plate. 

Donald noticed this of course, but any attempts to get an explanation out of the boy was answered with a shrug or a soft mutter of, “I’m fine.” Eventually, Donald would abandon his own dinner in order to herd Dewey off to bed. 

It was disconcerting to see the most energetic of his nephews rise from the table without a word, and follow Donald out of the dining room rather than complain about the early hour. 

Once Donald and Dewey had gone, Huey, Louie, and Webby became less reticent. Louie bemoaned the treasure they might’ve left behind, while Huey lectured him on proper spelunking safety. Webby scooted her chair a little closer to Scrooge and began asking rapidfire questions about Demogorgana which he did his best to answer. 

Not long after, Beakley entered the room with a perturbed expression as she scanned the sparse dining table. She left the kitchen door swinging behind her. 

“I’ll have to stick Launchpad’s dinner in the fridge at this rate,” she groused. “He hasn’t already left for St. Canard, has he?”

Scrooge didn’t fail to notice how the children perked up at that, but ignored it for the moment. 

“No, I don’t think so, Beakley,” he said, mindful of the his niece and nephew’s gazes on him. “It wouldn’t be like Launchpad to leave without saying goodbye. He returned the limo to the garage, perhaps he’s still there?”

Rather than reassuring Beakley, as he’d meant to, Scrooge’s words only seemed to make the furrow between her brows deepen. 

“Hm,” was all she said, before turning back into the kitchen. 

The boys continued their conversation as normal and Webby resumed her line of questioning, but Scrooge couldn’t help but feel as though everyone knew something he didn’t. 

It wasn’t a feeling he particularly liked. 

 

As late afternoon dwindled into evening, Scrooge coerced his remaining niece and nephews upstairs for some rest. 

They went up with token protests, but in the end left Scrooge alone in the foyer once more. He didn’t feel particularly tired, though everything that had happened since Dewey nearly fell had a certain dreamlike quality to it. It was almost enough to convince Scrooge that Dewey had indeed been lost to the deep dark of the caves, and everything up to now was his mind trying to convince him that he hadn’t. 

Scrooge shook himself, mentally and physically, to rid himself of his black thoughts. He wasn’t going to lose sleep for any lack of worrying, so he might as well worry about something he had control over. 

Namely, one Launchpad McQuack. 

Scrooge was correct in telling Beakley that he wasn’t the type to vanish without even a by-your-leave, much less at dinnertime. He’d learned what kind of man Launchpad was in the two years he’d been in his employ, even with the lies and the mysterious injuries. He was a man Scrooge trusted, despite his occasional brainlessness, and not just because Beakley trusted him first. 

It was difficult to explain, how Scrooge knew that Launchpad’s loyalty to him was absolute. Of course, Launchpad still had his family in St. Canard and his strange “second job,” both of which he was equally dedicated to. 

It might’ve been strange for anyone else, but the more Launchpad kept hidden, the more he lied, the more Scrooge trusted him. Because in spite of the deception, Launchpad was an honest man. It was for this reason and this reason alone that Scrooge did not blame Launchpad for putting that expression of fear and indecision on Dewey’s face when he refused to take Launchpad’s hand in the seconds before he fell. 

No, there was something going on — something with the children — that Scrooge couldn’t see. And it was starting to become a threat. 

Scrooge didn’t know how long he’d been standing in the glow of the foyer’s fireplace, his thoughts circuitous and pointless, when Donald came back down the stairs. He had a coat on and his car keys in hand, clearly on his way to work. 

Donald nodded at Scrooge, not stopping as he headed for the front door. “I’ll be back around five or six,” he said. 

Scrooge turned around before his nephew could finish walking past him. “Ah, Donald. How...how is the lad? How’s Dewey?”

Donald paused, suspicion flickering briefly across his face, followed by surprise and then his usual wariness. 

“He’s sleeping now. I think he was just a little shaken up, but he’ll be okay.”

Scrooge nodded, and turned back to face the fireplace. The pressure in his chest didn’t ease. 

But it seemed that, for once, Donald had more to say to him. 

“This can’t happen again, Scrooge,” he said, and though his voice was level, his tone brooked no argument. 

Scrooge rubbed his forehead with a sigh. He could scarcely remember a time when conversation with his nephew wasn’t fraught with tension or old wounds that never healed quite right. “I’m hardly omnipotent, Donald. There’ll always be accidents, I can’t always control —”

“No,” Donald cut him off. “When you go on adventures,  _ they  _ are your top priority. I don’t care about the prize at the end of the tunnel or how big the haul; I’m trusting you not to  _ lose  _ them. Do you understand?”

Any argument Scrooge might’ve had building fizzled out with Donald’s final, pointed words. Once more he remembered the uncomprehending terror on Dewey’s face, and averted his gaze to the fireplace. 

“Yes,” he said, nodding stiffly. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Scrooge watched Donald turn and walk away. Not a moment later, he heard the front door open and close behind his nephew. 

The fire crackled before him, the sound nearly deafening in his empty foyer. He looked up at the portraits hanging above him, the flickering glow of the fire casting strange shadows on his painted faces as they stared daringly out at nothing. More often now, looking at them was not unlike looking upon the face of a stranger. 

 In one decisive motion, Scrooge turned away from the fireplace, and followed the path Donald had taken. He opened the door just in time to see his nephew’s beat up car vanish down the side of the hill. Leaning forward a bit, he caught a glimpse of the manor’s garage, partially hidden by the treeline. Despite the late hour, the windows were still ablaze with light.

 

Scrooge held his cane in both hands as he approached the garage that both housed his limousine and served as Launchpad’s home away from home. He was wary of announcing his presence just yet, very much aware of the sensitivity of the subject he wished to discuss. 

He told himself it wasn’t nerves that made him grip his cane so tightly; he’d never had a problem approaching Launchpad before, so why should this be any different?

While he berated himself for the idiocy of that statement, he finally made it to the aluminum garage door. It still bore the gaping hole Launchpad had made by plowing through it in the limo, now poorly patched up with a tarp. 

But something other than nerves (which he still refuted) gave him pause. With the tarp doing little to insulate sound within the garage, Scrooge could clearly hear the muted conversation going on inside. He recognized Launchpad’s low baritone and Beakley’s sharp accent. But rather than give them their privacy, Scrooge quietly planted his cane on the ground, using it to take the weight off his bad leg. 

He wanted answers, and he was going to be out here for a while, after all. 

Scrooge leaned forward and listened hard, grateful that his hearing hadn’t gone the way of his eyesight. 

“I just don’t understand it,” Beakley was saying, “you could easily just microwave this, and have a proper dinner.”

Launchpad chuckled, deep and familiar. “Missing dinner once won’t kill me, Mrs. B. You don’t need to worry about me.”

“I’m not worried about  _ you _ ,” Beakley sniffed. “I’m worried about the dinner I prepared going to waste because all you ever eat in here is either deep fried or covered in chocolate.”

“Sometimes both!” Launchpad replied cheerily. 

A series of soft metallic thuds and squeaks filled the space for the next several moments. Scrooge surmised that Launchpad was working on repairs to the limo, though he couldn’t recall it sustaining any significant damage on the way back from the airfield. 

Beakley spoke up then. 

“You used to make eating a priority after a stressful mission,” she said shortly. 

_ “Hey,” _ Launchpad all but snapped, so unlike his usually mellow tone that Scrooge startled. “Don’t do that. I’m not... _ that _ anymore, B. I haven’t been for a while.”

“Denying it ever happened —”

“I’m not denying anything!” Launchpad interrupted. “I’m saying it happened. It happened and it’s done. And I’m better for it.”

Their conversation tapered off once more, the silence only punctuated by the clatter of tools and the creak of the limo. 

Beakley chuckled quietly. “I wonder, sometimes, at how you don’t resent me.”

Launchpad’s laughter was incredulous, and far more plain. “C’mon, Mrs. B, you know me better than that! Besides, it was my choice. No matter what happened, I don’t regret it.”

“Yes, but without my interference, you might’ve  _ stayed  _ Launchpad McQuack,” Beakley said, a touch rueful. “None of this...disappearing act.”

“It is what it is,” Launchpad replied. “Can you hand me the socket wrench?”

There was the sound of movement, as Beakley presumably did just that. 

“Are we going to talk about what happened?” Beakley asked. 

“I thought we just did!”

Scrooge could easily imagine Beakley’s eye roll. “I mean yesterday, Launchpad. In Culebra.”

“Not much to talk about,” Launchpad said. “Things could’ve gone bad. They didn’t.”

“You’ve been avoiding everyone like the plague,” Beakley refuted. “You won’t eat. Dewey looks like death warmed over. Things hardly went  _ well _ .”

For nearly a minute, the creak and groan of the limousine was the only sound in the garage. Though the night grew chillier by the second, it was not responsible for the icy feeling of unease coiling in Scrooge’s gut. 

“Something’s...not right,” Launchpad eventually said. “It’s like the kids know the truth. Dewey—Dewey especially.”

“Know the truth?” Beakley repeated. “Launchpad, that’s not possible.”

“Believe me, I know!” he replied on a strained laugh. “But they’ve been avoiding me for days, don’t even want me driving them to school. And  _ man _ , B, you should’ve seen the look on Dewey’s face when I tried to help him. He doesn’t trust me at all anymore.”

“Have you thought of telling them the truth?” Beakley asked after a prolonged pause. “Clearing things up might help.”

Launchpad snorted, then sighed. “I don’t know if I can even do that. I’ve never told anyone the whole truth.”

“Surely your husband—”

“Drake knows bits and pieces,” Launchpad said. “Enough to have an idea. It’s just hard, y’know? Saying the whole truth, when all my training’s telling me to lie.”

Beakley chuckled humorlessly. “And yet you claim you don’t resent me.”

Scrooge’s mind raced with questions and confusion, more so than before. He’d thought himself the master of secrets, but his chauffeur it seemed was giving him a run for his money. 

Under most circumstances, Scrooge might’ve stayed longer, eavesdropped more. But this wasn’t most circumstances, so he simply turned away from the busted garage door and headed back to the mansion. 

He’d heard enough.


	8. Last Ride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I think it's time we took the direct approach."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://mighty-ant.tumblr.com/)  
> Check out my DuckTales podcast [here](http://amorespatospodcast.libsyn.com/)

Dewey awoke the following morning with resolve settled deep in his gut. 

He was the last one awake of his brothers, a rare feat in of itself, and not an easy achievement to claim from Louie. But they’d let him sleep in after the scare in Culebra, which Dewey most definitely didn’t think about. Instead, he searched through a pile of his laundry and retrieved the shirt that seemed least likely to stand on its own. 

He definitely didn’t think about that terrifying instant of weightlessness as the ground dropped out beneath him, taking his stomach with it. He didn’t think about how Launchpad’s expression of confusion morphed into one of horror when Dewey didn’t take his hand. 

Nope, not at all. 

Dewey hurried down the stairs that descended from their tower bedroom, for once grateful for the relative solitude. Considering the day they’d had, Louie was probably in the TV room watching Ottoman Empire. And because Huey wouldn’t want to be alone, he’d join him. But Webby was more of a wildcard.

After a particularly stressful adventure, she would sometimes hole up in her room and pore over her painstakingly detailed notes on the life and times of their Uncle Scrooge. But other times she could be found training in her and Beakley’s private dojo (the location of which was unknown to Dewey, and had been expressly forbidden from entering) or somewhere outside, weather permitting. 

On his way to Webby’s room, Dewey spotted her doing tai-chi on the lawn through one of the second story windows,  

Since embarking on his quest to learn the truth of his mother’s disappearance, guilt had become an old friend. An old, unwanted friend who had overstayed their welcome but one that Dewey knew he had to endure in order to spare his brothers. If the truth turned out to be that Della Duck was a backstabbing, family-abandoner, then his brothers were better off in ignorance. Or so he told himself. 

But this thing with Launchpad was too close to home. He’d already involved Huey and Louie, back before they knew how dire the situation could get. Dewey had sowed distrust in Launchpad, and whether or not the pilot was deserving of it, it had almost gotten him killed. 

What if one of his brothers had been in his position? Would they have reached out to Launchpad, or would the doubt he’d cultivated make them hesitate as he had? Would Launchpad have caught them in time?

Dewey would not be responsible for one of his brothers getting hurt. Or..or worse. 

But Webby was used to this kind of thing. She was good at keeping secrets. And he couldn’t keep this from her if he tried. And he didn’t want to try. 

 

The mansion was cavernous in size, every big on the inside as it looked on the outside. That made it near impossible to simply run into other people as long as one avoided the more heavily trafficked areas. There were all sorts of hidden passageways and hidden doors that Dewey and his brothers were still in the process of discovering. 

Despite this, Dewey crept down the halls like a fugitive, looking over his shoulder every ten paces. He wasn’t _up to_ _anything_ per say, at least not yet. Of course that didn’t stop from being wary of confrontation by his brothers, or Beakley, or worse, _Scrooge_ , who would ask how he was feeling and shuffle him back to bed and make him feel like a poor excuse for an adventurer. 

He was nearly to the first floor landing, having avoided the main hallways by taking a passage behind a bookshelf, and was still grappling with anxiety over being caught. In fact, since he’d seen Webby through the window, it almost felt like he was being watched. But save the portraits lining the walls, there was no one else in the hall.  

At least none that  _ he  _ could see. 

Dewey only had a moment’s warning before the temperature in the hallway dropped drastically. His breath clouded in front of him like he was back on Mt. Neverrest and not in the surprisingly well-ventilated mansion. 

There could only be one person responsible. 

“And what might you be up to, Master Dewey?” said a monotone voice. 

Even though he was expecting it, Dewey still jumped and let out an undignified yelp. He whirled around to find his great-uncle’s spectral butler standing at attention, his hands tucked behind his back. He was floating a good foot off the ground. 

Dewey breath fogged before him as he sighed, rubbing his arms as he shivered. 

A flair for the dramatic indeed. 

“Heyyyy, Duckworth,” Dewey said, “I’m just going downstairs! Definitely not up to something!”

“Hmmm,” Duckworth replied. “Are you aware that the path you’ve chosen will take a good deal longer than if you were to take the main staircase? This may lead one to believe that you are, as you say, ‘up to something.’ That ‘something’ being snooping around Mr. McDuck’s rooms.”

Dewey crossed his arms, only partly to disguise his shivering. “Not snooping!” he said, “I’m  _ exploring, _ Duckworth, my good man.”

Duckworth’s face remained impassive save for the slight raise of his eyebrow. “I fail to see the difference.”

“Well, one’s just regular kid stuff and the other suggests I’m hiding something,” Dewey explained. “Which I’m not!” 

“Be that as it may,” Duckworth said, “I recommend you use the main staircase in the future. Is that clear, Master Dewey?”

Dewey faltered under the ghost’s emotionless gaze. The cold air seemed to sharpen, and out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the windows beginning to frost over. 

“Uh...you got it,” Dewey said, edging around Duckworth. “I can  _ Dewey  _ that!”

He hurried down the hall, the temperature rising steadily with every step he took. Dewey risked a glance behind him just in time to see Duckworth’s tall form fade out of existence. 

His uncle’s butler was one mystery Dewey wasn’t keen on solving. 

 

“Webby!” Dewey whispered as loud as he dared, once he’d closed the front door behind him. 

He’d taken the direct route to the mansion’s front lawn, even risking being spotted by his brothers in the TV room. After Duckworth decided to follow him like a creep the first time, he didn’t want to chance the butler doing so again and ratting him out to Scrooge.

Webby paused mid-motion, her arms extended and knees bent. She looked at Dewey over her shoulder. 

“Dewey?” she said, mimicking his volume. “Why are we whispering?”

He hurried over to her, glancing nervously behind him all the while. The mansion loomed large overhead, but no one followed him and there wasn’t anyone lurking in any of the nearby windows that he could tell. 

“We need to step up our investigation of Launchpad,” Dewey said. 

Webby stared back at him in a moment of uncomprehending silence. “I thought we had?” she said. “With your brothers —”

“I think,” Dewey interrupted. He looked away briefly. “I think we should keep my brothers out of this from now on.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Webby asked. She wrung her hands together. “We’ve already come so far, and they’re worried about Launchpad too.”

“I’m more worried about  _ them, _ Webby,” Dewey stressed. “This is getting too dangerous. I’m the one who was wondering about Launchpad in the first place, I don’t want them getting hurt because of me!”

“Dewey,” Webby said, “so far, you’re the only one who’s almost gotten hurt.”

“I…” Dewey crossed his arms over his chest and looked down at the grass. It was difficult to describe the dread that had taken root in his chest, under his ribs, like a physical ache. He felt like he was still falling.

“This isn’t like our Della Duck investigation,” Webby said hesitantly. “They already know what we’ve been doing.”

“Then we need to move without them,” Dewey replied, with growing certainty in his voice. “Like,  _ now! _ The faster we uncover the truth, the better it’ll be for everyone.”

Webby stared at the mansion for a long moment, expression inscrutable. Then she turned to meet Dewey’s gaze. 

“Why me?” she asked. 

“What?”

“Why do you still want  _ my  _ help?” Webby asked seriously. 

Dewey rubbed the back of his head. “Well…” he tried. “Because...because you’re Webby! I know I can trust you. You-you make me better. You always know what you’re doing, which is good cuz I barely know anything!”

He looked back at Webby, a little embarrassed, but smiling. “There isn’t anyone I’d rather uncover dangerous secrets with than you.”

Webby’s answering smile was teary-eyed and bright, to his relief. By the way she rocked back on her heels Dewey knew that she wanted a hug. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, and Webby eagerly embraced him around the middle. 

“Okay,” Webby said decisively as she pulled away from Dewey. “What’s the plan?”

“I think it’s time we took the direct approach,” he replied seriously. 

  
  


The “direct approach” would constitute infiltrating Launchpad’s garage via the ventilation system. 

Like the mansion, the vents were just the right size for a duckling to crawl through. Dewey couldn’t help but wonder if it was intentional on Scrooge’s part, for some bizarre reason or other, or due to an error in the buildings’ design. Whatever the reason, he was grateful for the sneaking opportunities they provided. Less so for the cobwebs and spiders he was sure were getting stuck in his feathers, despite Webby getting the brunt of it by going first. 

“Sorry it’s so dusty,” Webby whispered as they crawled through the air duct. 

Something with too many legs moved in the dark near Dewey’s hand and he suppressed a shudder. “That’s not what I’m really worried about,” he said. 

“I’ve only been through here once or twice, so it’s not as clean as the vents in the mansion,” Webby continued apologetically. “I learned the layout years ago, but never bothered coming back. I figured there wasn’t anything about Launchpad worth researching.”

She glanced back at Dewey over her shoulder, looking chagrined. “I guess that was pretty dumb of me, huh?”

Dewey quickly shook his head. “You were distracted by Scrooge! His life-story’s the stuff of legend and you were living in his house. There’s only so many mysteries you can uncover on your own.”

Webby smiled, genuine and bright, and some of the pressure in Dewey’s chest eased. It was almost easy to forget that for all of Webby’s incessant cheer and boundless energy, she had been alone for _ so long, _ longer than Dewey could bear imagining. She had him and his brothers now, she wasn’t an only child anymore in every way that mattered, but still she hesitated. She was wary and apologetic and awkward but also quietly confident, kind, and insurmountably brave. She was  _ Webby _ . 

And Dewey was lucky to have her at his side. 

“Are we almost there?” he asked as they approached a bend in the duct. To Dewey it very much felt like they could’ve been crawling for hours, though it had likely only been about fifteen minutes. 

“It should be on the other side of this corner,” Webby said. She switched off the flashlight headband she’d been using to guide their way when a softer light began to illuminate the vent.

They were met with the end of the passage, a rectangular grate with slots wide enough to allow in light from the garage. Webby gestured for Dewey to be quiet as they made their final approach, and he’d never been more conscious of the creaking of metal than he was in that moment. 

But they reached the grate without issue, though the vent remained of a size to accommodate only one duckling at a time. That didn’t stop Dewey, who did his best to crawl over Webby so he could survey their surroundings too. They ended up more smushed together than he’d like, but the end result was the same. 

The vent looked out over the garage from Launchpad’s second story loft. With their limited vantage point, they could see Launchpad’s bench press and punching bag, and the wooden rail strung with fairy lights that for the first time weren’t aglow. 

“What’re we waiting for?” Dewey whispered. “You can kick the vent open , right?”

Webby shushed him. “We don’t know who might be here! We can’t approach until we know the coast is clear.”

Though they remained smushed together, Dewey stopped squirming and Webby stopped elbowing him. In the ensuing silence, they heard the soft strains of music and a voice, Launchpad’s voice, singing along. It was coupled with the clank and creak of tools on machinery, and it was easy to guess that he was doing maintenance on either the limo or his motorcycle. 

As the seconds bled into minutes, Dewey’s renewed fervor began to dull. They could hardly snoop properly if Launchpad never left, and judging by his stirring rendition of “Bohemian Quacksody,” this certainly seemed to be the case. 

Once it became clear that they would be waiting a while, Dewey shuffled back in the vent so he was behind Webby once more. He didn’t see any sense in keeping each other crushed if there was nothing to see and no imminent reason to spring to action. While Webby kept watch on the garage, Dewey pulled out his phone and played a series of games on mute. 

Launchpad was on his tenth BABBA song (all of which he sung along too in a surprisingly pleasant baritone) when something finally changed. 

Dewey thought he was imagining the shrill, beeping sound. He even shook his head a few times to clear it. But then he realized that while the beeping wasn’t going away, Launchpad’s voice had. 

Something  _ crashed  _ just out of their line of sight, startling Dewey so bad he banged his head on the vent ceiling. 

Webby swatted at him to keep quiet, but Launchpad made no indication that he’d heard. 

“No, no no no, no no no no,” he muttered on a seemingly endless loop, a fair match to the beeping which gave no sign of stopping. 

They caught a brief glimpse of Launchpad’s face as he rushed over to the limo; his hair was disheveled under his hat, he wasn’t wearing his jacket, and his expression was of such terror that Dewey nearly felt his heart still in his chest. 

Launchpad wrenched open the driver’s side door of the limo, ducking inside. They heard the crackle of a radio, and the beeping was abruptly cut off. 

“DW?” Launchpad demanded, his voice brittle.

Dewey almost gasped at the familiar codename, but Webby slapped her hand over his beak just in time. 

“DW, are you there?” Launchpad said, a note of tension in his tone that Dewey had never heard before. “Come in, can you hear me? This better not be a drill, otherwise I’ll tell Gos where your chocolate stash is. That’s not an empty threat! DW?!”

Launchpad stepped out of the limo with his back to them, and the beeping immediately resumed. He clutched the edge of the open door so tightly his knuckles popped. 

In those few seconds it felt like the entire room was holding its breath, Dewey and Webby included. 

He shuffled closer to Webby’s side, and without hesitation she reached for his hand. Watching the scene unfold below them, a feeling of wrongness settled over them, like they were seeing something that shouldn’t be seen. 

The only meaningful comparison Dewey could make was of a time his Uncle Donald was between jobs when he was younger. It was the worst things had ever gotten; they barely ate anything other than canned food, didn’t have electricity for days at a time. 

Dewey had wandered into the kitchen one night for a glass of water. Instead he found his Uncle Donald hunched over the table with his head in his hands, the entire space only illuminated by the dimly lit camping lantern beside him. 

His uncle was silent and still in darkness, the only sound that of the waves lapping against the hull. And Dewey, so used to seeing Donald smiling and moving, tripping over himself and serving dinner like it was a five-course meal, be it home-cooked or from a can, found the stillness especially disconcerting. Like his Uncle Donald had been replaced with a a statue, numb and unfeeling. 

It wasn’t so different from watching Launchpad trying to keep himself from falling apart. 

Launchpad unfroze suddenly, patting himself down until he retrieved his phone from one of his pockets. He tapped at it for a moment, and went to hold it up to his ear only to growl in frustration. He brought it back down and tapped on it some more, before bringing it up to his ear. 

Webby and Dewey were too far away to hear it ring, but they still had enough of a vantage point to see the growing tension in his shoulders as he ducked his head and his shoulders rose up to meet it. 

With jerking motions, Launchpad stuffed the unanswered phone back in his pocket. The panicked feeling that surrounded him hadn’t ebbed. 

Dewey felt Webby stiffen beside him, and knew that she had come to the same conclusion he had. 

Launchpad was going to make a break for it. 

And he did—just not in the way they might’ve expected. 

Rather than take the limo or the motorcycle, or even run out the door, Launchpad ran straight through the tarp covering up the hole he’d left in the aluminum garage door. Though he vanished from the garage in a manner of seconds, taking the tarp with him, they still heard the slip and thud of Launchpad falling on his face. 

As his rapid footsteps receded, they realized that the garage was empty just like they’d wanted. 

Webby kicked the grate open without needed to be prompted, expertly sliding out of the vent and landing on her feet. 

Dewey’s exit wasn’t quite so smooth, but he also didn’t land on his face so he considered it a win. 

“We’ve gotta be quick and quiet,” Dewey said, more for his benefit than Webby’s, as they hurried over to the ladder that would lead to the garage proper. “We don’t know when Launchpad’ll be back.”

The garage’s first level looked almost no different from the last time Dewey had visited for movie night, several weeks ago now. It was littered by the usual clutter: crumpled napkins and magazines and random odds and ends. But Launchpad’s impressive purple motorcycle was lying on the ground, surrounded by a scattering of tools after having apparently tipped over the large tool cart beside it

And something in the limo kept beeping. 

“Where do we look first?” Webby said, scanning the garage a little nervously. She hadn’t visited nearly as often as Dewey had, and the chaos was daunting when one was operating on borrowed time. 

But Dewey had been here at least a dozen times. He knew almost every corner of the garage, was free to help himself to anything in the fridge. He’d fallen asleep on Launchpad’s lumpy couch more times than he could count, some cheesy ‘80s flick playing on the television with the volume turned low. Sometimes when Launchpad had to gas up the limo in the early hours of the morning Dewey would join him and they’d buy terrible gas stations burritos. 

The garage was meant to be Launchpad’s life laid bare, and that was the lie of it.

A hammock for a bed, an openair loft, there wasn’t a single thing hidden. Like Launchpad himself, who could talk a whole lot about himself without ever actually saying anything. It was just an extension of his act, of the clueless and harmless and friendly pilot. 

Dewey knew what belonged in the garage, what Launchpad had allowed him to see. And there was one thing he’d never seen, though he always saw Launchpad leaving with it. 

“The pink backpack,” Dewey said. 

“What?” Webby asked. 

“The Quackypatch backpack,” Dewey replied more fervently, scanning the garage. “Remember? I’ve never seen where he keeps it.”

Dewey ran to check the behind the couch, under the sink, and wherever else a backpack could be stashed out of sight. 

Meanwhile, Webby poked around the open limo. 

“The trunk’s locked!” Webby discovered quickly, calling out to Dewey. 

He dashed over as she was in the middle of pulling out her lockpicking set. But once her hands were poised over the lock, she hesitated. 

“Are we...are we doing the right thing?” she looked at Dewey for assurance, but his mouth felt very dry in that moment. 

He thought of his brothers, obviously watching “Ottoman Empire.” This wasn’t like going behind their backs to research their mother, someone who was dead and gone (missing? Dead? Definitely gone). Launchpad was  _ here,  _ not a face on a crumpled page. The object of their investigation could investigate back. 

But there were no booby traps this time. No labyrinthine temples on mysterious islands. They had risked very little to get where they were now. It was too close to home, too close to reality; the reality they had learned before ghosts and treasure and monsters forced them to reevaluate it. The simple truth that there were bad people who would masquerade as good. 

The limo’s locked trunk was the least challenging obstacle they’d ever faced, but he hesitated just as he had outside the Garden of Selene. 

And just as he’d done then, Dewey bit the bullet. 

“We’re protecting our family,” Dewey said with a nod. “Open it.”

Webby popped the trunk open in a matter of seconds, and it loomed over them and its contents like the maw of some great beast.

Inside was a spare tire, a jack and a crowbar. There were a few loose cans of Pep and a cardboard box with some of Launchpad’s work shirts folded haphazardly inside. And in the middle of it all, the pink backpack. 

Dewey grabbed it before he could chicken out, setting it down on the ground between them. He and Webby knelt on either side of it. And without further prompting or indecision, he unzipped the backpack. 

Black. 

Black clothes, black mask, black tactical utility belt. A grappling hook. Handcuffs. 

Whatever Dewey had been expecting, it wasn’t this.

“What  _ is  _ all this?” he asked, confusion and shock making his thoughts run together. 

Webby looked as lost as he felt. “Maybe Launchpad’s an undercover cop?” she tried. 

Dewey shook his head, holding a black jacket up to the light. Against the bright pink backpack, the dichotomy was startling. 

“Launchpad told us St. Canard was dangerous,” he murmured. His hands trembled around the jacket. “He didn’t say  _ why.” _

“Dewey,” Webby said softly, pulling the grappling hook out of the backpack. “You don’t think—”

“I don’t know  _ what  _ to think!” he sputtered. 

“Maybe we should just ask him,” Webby said, carefully examining the grappling hook. “Uncle Scrooge said if we ever want to know about something, we can just ask. I mean...this doesn’t have to be like our Della Duck investigation. Launchpad’s right _ here.” _

Dewey looked inside the backpack’s mess of black contents. It was all...strange and a little frightening, but not exactly damning. All the same, he knew that they’d gone too far. They couldn’t put this back in the box. 

Launchpad was not what he seemed. 

Webby was still looking at Dewey expectantly, already knowing what his answer would be. 

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Webs—”

Voices, coming through the hole in the garage door, had Dewey ruthlessly silencing himself. They listened in growing horror as the voices become more distinct as their owners drew nearer. 

“What do we  _ do?”  _ Dewey hissed, panic making his mind go blank. 

It would take too long to run back to the vent, and the garage was an open space, there wasn’t anywhere that could even pass as a hiding place. 

Webby grabbed his hand. “The limo, Dewey!” 

She had dragged him halfway to the limo’s open door before Dewey regained control of his limbs. They dove through the driver’s side and crawled over the divider window, landing in the backseat in a tangle of limbs. 

They didn’t have time to close the trunk. 

Not a moment later, Beakley’s sharp, commanding timbre filled the garage. 

“—nothing’s managed to get through?” she was asking. 

“Nothing,” Launchpad said, sounding far less collected. “Not on the emergency line and not on Gos’ cell. D-Drake broke his phone last week. We haven’t had time to get a replacement.”

Dewey tried to peer through the window, but Webby yanked him back down by the collar of his shirt. 

“This is the emergency line?” Beakley’s voice came from the limo’s front seat. 

Webby and Dewey flattened themselves against the floor of the car, hiding under the seats to the best of their ability. Beakley gave no indication she had noticed them. 

There was a click, and the incessant beeping stopped once more. 

“This is Agent 22 initiating override code: DW199191.”

Beside Dewey, Webby’s eyes widened to a degree that would’ve been comical had it not been for her stricken expression. She covered her beak with both hands and locked her gaze with his, like she was trying to communicate a message of utmost importance through eye contact alone. 

The message was, of course, lost on Dewey. 

Whatever Beakley attempted appeared to have failed, as the beeping returned without a change in decibel and just as grating as before. 

“I need to make sure everything’s okay,” Launchpad said. 

“Are you certain, Launchpad?” Beakley replied. “ I understand why you’re worried, but something about this feels a little too convenient to me. It could easily be a trap.”

“Or my family could be in danger,” Launchpad said, a hard edge to his voice that Dewey immediately found disconcerting. Less the cheerful manchild he knew and more the kind of man who kept a grappling hook and handcuffs in the trunk of his car. 

Beakley’s voice took on the same pinched quality it did when Dewey and his brothers failed to use a coaster. “You need to be smart about this, Launchpad, and rushing in blindly is  _ not  _ smart. It’s not as if they’ve fallen into another dimension.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Launchpad said, and it should’ve sounded like a joke, though nothing in his tone gave that indication. 

His voice came from the back of the limo, and the realization that they’d left the trunk open make Dewey feel like he’d been doused with ice water. For several tense seconds he didn’t even dare to breathe, waiting for Launchpad to do  _ something _ —say something, comment on it, wrench the door open and discover them hiding guilty on the floor. 

All Launchpad did was close the trunk. 

“If you insist on running off, can you at the  _ very least _ keep me apprised of your recklessness?” Beakley demanded as Launchpad got in the driver’s seat.

She seemed annoyed to Dewey’s mind, but Launchpad only laughed, sounding much more like himself. 

“Still your worst trainee, aren’t I?”

“You were abysmal,” Beakley replied. “Be careful, Launchpad.”

“Don’t know the meaning of the word,” Launchpad said, before slamming his door shut and gunning the engine. 

Dewey’s stomach lurched at the abrupt jolt, feeling like he’d left it behind on the garage floor as Launchpad drove further and further away.

It looked like Dewey and Webby were going for a ride. 


	9. Dunsinane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything that can go wrong, will go wrong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who were curious about the timeline of this story, it's set after "The Confidential Casefiles of Agent 22," and won't be getting into any Della or finale territory.   
> I hope you enjoy the chapter! I've been looking forward to it since I started writing this story.

 

Beakley watched the limousine peel out of the garage with tires squealing, and a heavy feeling of dread dropped into her stomach like a stone. 

She mentally shook herself, tearing her eyes away from the gaping hole in the garage door. She trusted Launchpad, and she trusted his judgement. Beakley knew why he had to do what he did, and were she in his position, she didn’t think she’d be able to do any differently. 

But decades worth of honed instincts were telling her that something wasn’t right. 

She scanned the contents of the garage, more out of habit than anything else. 

Launchpad had left his usual disaster, which Beakley had long since left for him to tidy up himself. Though she’d never visited his home in St. Canard, she couldn’t imagine either he or his partner would allow it to be in any state resembling the garage. But Launchpad spent so little time here in comparison to his home, he was allowed to turn it into a bachelor pad. She supposed. 

But more importantly, nothing seemed to be out of place. The mess was the usual one, tools on the floor and old takeout bags on the counter. However, the air vent hanging open above the loft did draw her attention. 

Beakley’s phone rang as she made her way over to the ladder. She stopped and pulled it out of her apron pocket, looking to see who was calling. There weren’t too many people with her number, after all. 

The number 112-519-8748 glared back at her, freezing the blood in her veins. 

Beakley accepted the call, and raised the phone to her ear. 

After a small pause, a bubbly woman’s voice greeted her. “Welcome to New Deli! What would you like to order?”

“Pastrami on rye,” Beakley said, “Hold the mustard.”

“We’ll get your order started right away,” the woman said. 

There was a crackle of static, and the phone seemed to click off. Exactly three seconds later, the voice of an older British man came through the receiver. “Agent 22, what’s your status?”

“Director Hooter?” Beakley said, incredulous. “Sir, what are you doing on the emergency line?”

“Trying to delegate in the middle of an emergency, what else,” Hooter retorted.  “I ask again, 22, what is your status?”

“I’m at the Eagle’s Nest,” Beakley said. “The Eagle is secure, though Double-O-Duck has just left the premises. Darkwing sent out a distress signal. Now, sir, what exactly is the emergency?” 

“Our servers have been hacked,” Hooter explained. The owl sounded furious, baffled, but mostly, he sounded shaken.“We’ve no idea who did it, what they were after, or what classified information they got ahold of. All communications are down save for the emergency line.”

Beakley’s tone was carefully measured. “Are you telling me S.H.U.S.H. has been compromised?”

“I’m telling you that S.H.U.S.H. has been compromised for the last fifteen minutes.”

 

“I’m serious, Louie, it doesn’t make sense.”

Louie, slumped nearly horizontally on the couch, groaned loudly. “Buuhhhhhh. This again. I thought you didn’t believe in conspiracy theories?”

“I  _ don’t,” _ Huey said emphatically. “I believe in theories, supported by fact and eyewitness testimony.”

Huey was sitting on the ground in front of the couch, “Ottoman Empire” blaring on the large television at a much lower decibel than usual. He had the Junior Woodchuck Guidebook open on the floor in front of him, as well as their laptop and a number of news articles he’d printed out. 

“Is this about Launchpad?” Louie asked, more subdued now.

“No,” Huey said shortly, though quickly amended himself. “Well, not exactly. We suspect that whatever’s Launchpad up to, it’s based in St. Canard, right?”

“Yeah,” Louie grunted, glancing back at the television. Johnny and Randy had chosen a hideous argyle design for the newest ottoman that he looked forward to seeing their that episode’s guest lambaste them for.

His brother’s apparent disinterest did little to dissuade Huey, or curb his insistence. “Well I did some more research into that weird stuff I talked about a couple days ago,” he said, “Remember, the stuff about the crime bosses and all those strange crimes in St. Canard?”

Louie shrugged. “I guess, but doesn’t Duckburg have those things too? Like the Beagle Boys and Glomgold.”

“If my research is right,” Huey said, “and it usually is, then those guys can’t compare to what’s going on in St. Canard.”

Looking a little more perturbed, Louie pushed himself up into something almost resembling a seated position. “Like what? I mean, everyone knows it’s more dangerous over there, I’ve never heard specifics, y’know?”

“See, that’s the weird part!” Huey exclaimed, turning to look back at his notes. “For the last five years, _The_ _St. Canard Post, Diamond Duck Times,_ even _St. Canard Tonight,_ it’s like they’re all willfully ignoring the crime we all _know_ is going on! Compared to the crimes I’m seeing talked about on blog posts and social media, the news is only reporting about a third of it, if that!”

“So the news in St. Canard has been lying to its citizens and the rest of the world,” Louie said slowly, with the air of someone realizing too late they had stepped into the deep end of a pool they’d had no idea existed. He looked exactly like Huey did last night, though rather than step into the deep end, Huey had driven right off the cliff. 

“Only in the last five years,” Huey emphasized, “All but one!” He plucked a printed article from out of his neatly organized array.

_ “Soft Copy _ is an online news article by someone with the pseudonym Tom Lockjaw. This person, or group of people, is going out conducting interviews and taking pictures and reporting on what’s  _ actually  _ going on in St. Canard! All the crimes that don’t go reported on the news! And they’re really  _ weird!” _

Louie rolled his eyes. “You keep saying that. Weird how?”

Huey put that article down in exchange for his laptop, and began scrolling through a carefully compiled list. “I mean, where do I even begin!” he said, only a little manically. “There’s the disappearance of bottled water tycoon, Bud Flood, who vanished just before it was revealed that he was poisoning the water of his competitors. 

“There’s reports of bats stealing anchovies, moles digging huge tunnels under the city and giant, exploding jack-in-the-boxes, crimes that the  _ Soft Copy  _ connects to all these insane sounding criminals whose names don’t show up anywhere else! Do you remember when St. Canard Tower exploded?”

Louie nodded hesitantly. “Yeah, like five years ago, right? But, uh, Hubert, you did get some actual sleep last night, right?”

“Pft!” Huey replied, flipping through the articles he had laid out on the ground. “Who has time for sleep when you’re turning conspiracy theory into conspiracy  _ fact!”  _

“The explosion marks the beginning of the coverups,” Huey said while he searched. “Most of the news outlets reported it was the result of a gas explosion, but a few of them claimed there was some device up there that detonated, and took half the Tower with it. But  _ all  _ of them reported about the death of Taurus Bulba, St. Canard’s resident kingpin. While he was in charge, the news still reported the news. The crime rates they talked about were real.”

He found the article he was looking for, pulling it out with a flourish and a cry of  _ “Aha!”  _ Huey lifted it up to Louie’s face, though he made little effort to read it. “This is  _ Soft Copy’s _ report of the events, back when they were first starting out! They talk about the explosion being caused by some machine Bulba had on the roof, but more importantly, it’s the first documented mention I could find of Darkwing Duck.”

Huey looked at Louie expectantly, waiting for a response, but Louie remained blank faced. 

On TV, Randy and Johnny were getting yelled at for picking out the appalling argyle print for their latest ottoman. 

“Darkwing Duck,” Louie repeated. “The same Darkwing Duck you told Dewey didn’t exist a week ago?”

Huey had the decency to look sheepish. “I didn’t have all the facts then! I thought Darkwing Duck was a ghost story, a myth perpetuated by the internet.”

“And now you’re telling me he — _ they _ are real?” Louie asked. 

Huey looked anxious and excited all at once. “I think so. They’ve never been mentioned by any of the official news outlets, but online I’ve found references to a masked vigilante going back almost  _ ten years. _ There’s firsthand accounts of people who claim Darkwing saved them from a mugging, that Darkwing reduced the crime rate in their neighborhood.” 

“So Darkwing’s a good guy,” Louie said slowly.

Huey opened his beak to answer, but promptly closed it with a hesitant expression. “Sort of?”

“Sort of,” Louie deadpanned. He flopped back onto the couch. “Ugh, get to the point, Huey!”

“It’s just…” Huey gestured helplessly at his notes. “According to  _ Soft Copy, _ Darkwing’s at the center of the weirdness. Everything from Taurus Bulba’s death to Bud Flood’s disappearance, it looks like Darkwing had a hand in it. And…” Again Huey faltered. “And there’s reports of him having a partner.”

Louie was still lying on his back, his eyes sitting squarely on the television. But his expression was far away, not giving Randy and Johnny the attention they deserved for daringly trying an ikat pattern for their ottoman. 

“DW,” Louie said. “That’s what Launchpad called that guy.”

“It could be a coincidence,” Huey admitted. “It’s not an uncommon nickname. And I’d almost call it a coincidence if it wasn’t for everything else we saw.”

“Ottoman Empire” continued to play on the television in front of them, the cheery beats and terrible one-liners not your usual background noise, but all the same one that was drowned out by the whirling thoughts of both brothers.

“I don’t think Launchpad is a bad guy,” Louie said at last. 

Huey looked relieved. “Me either,” he said. “I think Dewey’s been getting too worked up about it. We should talk to him once he wakes up, I can show him my notes.”

“This is the first and only time I’ll agree to talk about your nerd stuff,” Louie muttered, turning his head forward and closing his eyes. 

“Oh, yeah?” Huey challenged with a grin. “What about—”

The door to the TV room opened without warning. “Lads, have you seen—”

Huey threw himself over his notes with a shout, inadvertently sending papers scattering over the carpet. 

Scrooge looked on in bewilderment from the doorway. It wasn’t unlike when they’d first moved into the mansion, where their every little quirk seemed to confuse their great-uncle to no end. 

But while Huey might’ve been too busy panicking, Louie noticed that Scrooge didn’t look like his usual self. Most mornings would find Scrooge in his cashmere robe, enjoying a cup of tea and the morning paper, often offering advice on their biweekly dart gun wars. Or, alternatively, he’d be dressed neat and proper with cane and top hat, dragging them off on another adventure. 

The Scrooge that stood in the doorway was wearing his trademark coat and spats, but his coat looked slept in. His top hat was missing, making his rumpled head feathers all the more noticable. There were dark circles under his eyes as if, contrary to the appearance of his clothes, he hadn’t gotten any sleep the night before. 

“Lads,” Scrooge said again, glancing down at Huey, still sprawled over his notes on the floor. “Have either of you seen Dewey?”

Louie shrugged, perfectly happy with letting Huey flounder. 

“He’s sleeping in our room,” Huey said. “Or he was when we came down.”

“Eh, that’s the thing y’see,” Scrooge said, scratching the back of his neck as he walked around the back of the couch. “He wasn’t in your room. Duckworth said he saw your brother skulking about on the third floor landing, and I thought he might be up to something.”

“Well, you know Dewey!” Huey replied cheerfully from his pitiable attempt at hiding his research. “Always up to something, that brother of ours!”

“Aye, that he is,” Scrooge replied amendably. “But I could say the same for you.” 

Quick as a flash, he ducked down and snatched a pile of papers out from under Huey, amidst his cry of protest. Scrooge straightened up to read through Huey’s carefully compiled notes and articles with a smug expression, though within seconds it had slipped off his face like water. 

“Boys,” Scrooge said soberly, worry evident in the furrow of his brow and the downward curve of his beak. It was a familiar expression, though one they’d only ever associated with their Uncle Donald. “This…” he couldn’t seem to find the words for a moment, his beak nearly agape.

“This is about Launchpad, isn’t it?” he said. 

Not even Louie could hide his jolt of surprise. 

Huey looked aghast. “How—”

“This is why you’ve all been acting barmy as barn owls, Dewey especially!” Scrooge shook the papers at them, and his voice began to rise in anger. “You’ve been prying into the life of a valued member of this family, and for what? Putting your lives needlessly at risk, I suspect, if yesterday’s incident was anything to go by. What do you boys have to say for yourselves?”

Huey had extricated himself from his laptop and scattered notes with a contrite expression, though Louie sat up in a little straighter on the couch. 

“You don’t know anything about Launchpad either,” he said. 

Scrooge turned his startled gaze on Louie. 

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Louie said. “You know as much as we do.  _ Did.” _

“I  _ know,” _ Scrooge said lowly, “that Launchpad is a trusted friend. In spite of whatever mystery you think you’ve uncovered, I know that at the very least.”

Huey spoke up hesitantly. “Actually, Uncle Scrooge, according to the research I’ve done Launchpad might be involved in something highly suspect—”

The slam of the front door startled the three of them into silence. Beakley’s voice preceded her into the room. 

“Mr. McDuck, we have a situation,” she was saying tersely, her imposing frame filling the doorway. She stopped, scanning the room with a quick snap of her eyes and her cool exterior faltered, allowing a glimpse of genuine panic to shine through. 

“Bentina,” Scrooge said, looking worried himself. “What—”

“Does anyone know where my granddaughter is?” Beakley demanded. 

 

The limousine’s privacy screen was lowered, and had remained that way for the last forty minutes. 

Laying on the floor of the limo, Dewey and Webby were knocked back and forth due to Launchpad’s reckless driving. Luckily, the thuds of their shifting bodies were covered up by the constant collisions of the limousine itself, though Dewey was pretty sure that his concussions had concussions at this point.

He and Webby had to limit their conversation to frantic whispering whenever traffic got particularly loud, and even then it felt like too much of a risk. The drone of the alarm coming from the front seat had petered out around twenty minutes in, though by Launchpad’s triumphant grunt it was him who’d finally silenced it. 

Since leaving the garage, Launchpad hadn’t made any other sound. Even though he must’ve thought he was alone, the limo felt cold without the constant refrain of his animated chatter. Although, that might have more to do with the fact that they now suspected him of being a criminal. 

Or a spy. 

Or a...something. Launchpad was a  _ something  _ that was mysterious, maybe dangerous, and knew Beakley better than Dewey had realized. 

He didn’t know what would happen if they revealed themselves to Launchpad now. Anxiety made his thoughts race and run together, and Dewey was afraid of being wrong. He was afraid of being right. He didn’t know if Launchpad could be trusted. 

Webby didn’t make a move to announce their presence either. Dewey saw the same nervousness reflected back in her eyes, and she’d reached out to hold his hand as Duckburg’s skyscrapers fell away. 

During a crescendo of honking some fifteen minutes into their drive, Webby stealthily rose on her knees and looked out the window. She ducked back down after a few seconds, her eyes wide and expressio perturbed. 

“We’re driving over the Audubon Bay Bridge,” she whispered fiercely. 

“Buh?” was Dewey’s response.

“Launchpad’s going to _ St. Canard.” _

Dewey tried to pay more attention to their surroundings after that, but their vantage point from the floor of the limo wasn’t the greatest. They left behind the bridge’s tall spires in favor of more skyscrapers, steadily replaced by lower, nondescript buildings. 

They weren’t able to speak again for some time, as even the frequency of Launchpad’s crashes started to dwindle. The only sound in the whole of the limousine other than Dewey’s too-loud breathing was the rush of static. He originally thought it was coming from the radio, but Webby made her hand in the approximate shape of a phone, holding it up to her ear. 

“A phone?” he mouthed silently. 

Webby nodded. She glanced furtively at the open divide, before scooting even closer to Dewey. Covering her beak with one hand, she whispered almost directly into his ear. 

“It’s a S.H.U.S.H. emergency communicator,” she said so quietly Dewey almost didn’t hear her. It wouldn’t make much of a difference if he hadn’t, since he had no idea what half of those words meant. 

Recognizing the look of confusion on his face, Webby said, just as softly, “My Granny has one just like it.”

Oh.  _ Oh. _

Suddenly, all the times Dewey and his brothers had joked about Beakley being a secret agent didn’t seem so funny. 

He remembered the terror on Launchpad’s face, the tension in his shoulders and his shaking hands. He remembered the pink backpack and the void inside of it, an accusation staring back at him. 

What had he gotten them into? 

They left behind the sounds of the city, the hubbub of traffic and clamor of pedestrians for something more familiar. Dewey could hear seabirds cawing, the distant blast of a ship’s horn and the lapping of waves. A harbor of some kind. 

At that moment, Dewey felt a bone-deep homesickness for the houseboat, waking up to the sounds of the marina and his brothers in the bunks above and below him. 

Webby had lifted herself up to peek out the window again, and she came back looking more worried than before. “He’s driving into a warehouse, Dewey,” she whispered close to his ear. “We need to let him know we’re here before anything happens.”

Even from the floor, Dewey could see the dark, cavernous ceiling closing over them, replacing the dismal gray sky. He knew Webby was right. 

Soon Launchpad was braking, though he left the engine idling and didn’t move to get out of the limo. The static from before started up again, and Launchpad spoke for the first time in almost an hour. 

“DW, are you there? I at the coordinates you sent me.”

The static resumed without interruption. 

Webby nudged Dewey, and jerked her head at the open divider. They’d waited long enough. 

Together, they rose from the floor of the limo and peered over the open divider. Through the windshield they could see very little of the warehouse’s shadowy confines, nothing beyond a few stacked oil drums and the vague outlines of catwalks above them. 

The limo’s idling engine was growling, and Launchpad had one hand on the steering wheel, his thumb tap tap tapping against it. In his other hand he was tightly clutching a purple phone, propped up against the side of his beak as he stared straight into the darkness. 

So naturally, Dewey got close and whispered, _ “Launchpad.” _

Launchpad gave a shout, jumping so high in his seat his head nearly touched the roof. At the same time, he swung his elbow back in one smooth, vicious line straight at Dewey’s face. He would’ve cracked Dewey’s beak had Webby not lunged forward, catching Launchpad’s elbow and blocking his attack. 

It all happened so quickly that Dewey hardly had time to react. Belatedly, his heart leapt into his throat, making it difficult to speak. 

Launchpad realized who they were, if his aghast expression was anything to go by. It made the shock of his best friend attacking him ebb slightly. 

“Guys, what-what are you  _ doing  _ here?” he demanded, alternating between looking at them with wide, stupefied eyes and rapidly scanning their surroundings. 

Launchpad wasn’t mad, like Dewey had half expected. He didn’t magically transform into a villain from one of their Saturday morning cartoons. No, Launchpad was  _ afraid.  _ And that was somehow worse. 

Webby laughed awkwardly. “Well...” she said, and didn’t continue. 

“Funny story,” Dewey started to say, once his mouth and brain became reacquainted, “we  _ might’ve  _ hidden in the limo so you wouldn’t find us snooping through your stuff.”

_ “Snooping _ —what—” Launchpad shook his head, turning back around to face the steering wheel. “Nevermind! Buckle up, guys, we’re getting outta here.”

He put the limo in reverse and floored it. 

Webby and Dewey scrambled to get in their seats and fasten their seatbelts. They ended up sitting facing the back windshield, and it was only for that reason that they saw the row of cylindrical barricades rise up out of the ground in front of the warehouse entrance. 

They hardly had time to yell a warning before Launchpad was crashing the limousine into the barricades with the devastating crunch of metal. The force was enough to send the kids rocking forward in their seats, though thanks to their seatbelts they didn’t get very far. The back windshield had a spiderweb of cracks running through it, though it didn’t shatter. 

“Dewey! Webby!” Launchpad barked, his voice fraught with tension and worry. “You okay, little buddies?”

“Ugh,” Dewey said, rubbing his chest where the seat belt had tightened painfully. 

“We’re okay,” Webby assured Launchpad, craning her head back to look at him. “What happened?”

“Someone doesn’t want us to leave,” Launchpad muttered. 

His purple phone, which had fallen into the passenger seat when Dewey startled him, chose that moment to crackle to life.

_ “Bingo! This guy’s got the right idea.”  _ For all that he spoke cheerfully, the unfamiliar voice emanating from the phone was guttural, like the sound of gravel being ground together.

Launchpad froze the instant the stranger began speaking. While his expression remained hidden from Dewey’s view, a glance over his shoulder granted him a glimpse of Launchpad’s hands tightening around the steering wheel, to the point where his knuckles stood out. 

_ “But I’m surprised at you, Double-O-D. Bringing little kids to the wrong side of town? That doesn’t sound like something my favorite sidekick would do.” _

The voice retained its friendly tone, but there was an undercurrent of malice that made Dewey’s feathers stand on end. Webby must have felt the same, because she grabbed his hand.

“Launchpad?” Dewey pressed, turning to look at the pilot who had yet to move. 

But at Dewey’s plea, Launchpad became a riot of motion. He threw the limousine back into drive and slammed on the gas. Nothing happened. 

The front of the limo began to rise off the ground as a second set of barricades emerged from below. No matter how the engine roared, they were stuck. 

“Launchpad, what’s happening?” Dewey demanded, his voice shaking now and he made no attempt to hide it. 

_ “Yeah, Launchpad,”  _ the voice piped up,  _ “Don’t you know it’s rude to leave a party without saying goodbye to the host?” _

There was a thud as something heavy landed on the roof of the limousine.  

They all looked up just in time for a jagged metal blade to be thrust through the roof, ending up mere inches from Dewey’s face. He and Webby screamed, struggling to unbuckle their seatbelts as the metal blade began to churn and rev—a chainsaw. They fell back to the floor of the limo as the chainsaw began to carve a hole in the roof. 

Dewey thought he heard Launchpad yell something, but it was lost in the cacophony. 

In seconds, the chainsaw had cleaved an uneven circle above them. Webby and Dewey had to jump out of the way as the piece of the roof fell to the floor of the limo between them. 

Looking down at them through the hole in the roof was a duck that struck Dewey as familiar for some disconcerting reason. He was lit from behind by the light coming through the warehouse entrance, with a long beak curved in a sneer and beady, shadowed eyes. He was dressed in a black three-piece suit, with a yellow shirt and crimson tie, beneath a red overcoat. He was still holding the chainsaw. 

“Well, well, well,” said the stranger in his ground gravel voice, brutal and amused in equal measure. His smile was all teeth. “Someone’s in trouble.”    
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honorable mention to anyone who correctly tallies the number of references I crammed into this chapter alone


	10. Out of the fire, into a bigger fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thing's start getting dangerous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://mighty-ant.tumblr.com/)  
> Check out my DuckTales podcast [here](http://amorespatospodcast.libsyn.com/)
> 
> This fic has fanart now! Please check out these artists' amazing work!   
>  \- By @transdarkwingduck! [here](https://transdarkwingduck.tumblr.com/post/180530657164/i-had-to-draw-something-for-a-good-landing-by/)  
> \- By @laneypenn! [here](http://laneypenn.tumblr.com/post/175346625048/i-watched-a-couple-episodes-of-darkwing-duck-bc-i/)

Donald slammed Scrooge against the wall, gripping fistfulls of his uncle’s lapel. 

“What do you mean two of my kids are _ missing?”  _ he demanded. Donald didn’t scream, or rage; his anger burned cold, all-encompassing fury beneath a thin veneer of calm. 

Scrooge’s throat worked silently, for once cowed in the face of Donald’s acrimony. He reached up, loosely clutching his nephew’s wrists. He found it difficult to meet his nephew’s gaze. 

“We think they snuck into the limo without Launchpad noticing,” Scrooge explained haltingly, “we can’t reach any of them.”

Donald scoffed quietly. He forcibly released Scrooge, leaving his uncle slumped against the wall, his coat badly wrinkled. 

He turned to survey his houseboat’s rebuilt living room, the newly replaced picture frames, the fresh coat of paint he’d applied just the day before. He’d started to think that he and the boys could make a life here, with Scrooge, as Della had intended. 

Donald shook his head, pressing a hand against the side of his beak. 

“I never learn,” he said quietly. 

Scrooge found his voice again. “This-this wasn’t my fault,” he said, and he sounded  _ broken _ . Which was fitting, considering he was still playing the part of the broken record, even a decade later. 

“Where have I heard that one before?” Donald countered, the betrayal and grief in his gaze enough to keep Scrooge pinned. 

Donald turned away from his uncle, stalking up the stairs to the upper deck. “We’re gonna find them, Scrooge. And once we do, you’re never seeing them again.”

He left Scrooge left alone, surrounded by the trappings of a happy life, one that had never needed him. Pictures of the boys smiled back at him, spanning back from their hatch day to their last school pictures. All he saw was the years he’d missed. 

“I know, nephew,” he said to no one, bending down to pick up his hat, knocked off his head in the scuffle. 

 

When Scrooge entered the dining room a few minutes later, he found it in carefully controlled chaos. 

Louie was rocking back and forth in a chair, the hood of his sweatshirt tugged over his head. 

Huey had all of his notes from the TV room scattered across the table, but was too busy blaming himself for his siblings’ disappearance to pay them any mind. Near tears, he clung to Donald’s arm as he apologized profusely. 

For his part, Donald was working on reassuring Huey,  crouching at his level and holding him close.

Beakley stood silent and austere by the end of the table, her broad arms crossed over her chest, well outside the sphere of chaos. She peered over Huey’s notes with a mildly impressed expression, but straightened when Scrooge entered the room. 

Donald looked up too, and squeezed Huey’s shoulder one more time before standing to meet Scrooge. His expression was cool, impersonal and expectant. 

It twisted the hot knife of guilt in Scrooge’s gut even deeper. 

“So?” Donald asked, “what do we have to go on?”

“I think I can answer that,” Beakley said. 

All eyes turned to his housekeeper, who stood at the ready with her arms folded behind her back. 

“I believe Launchpad has been lured into a trap.  _ He _ was the target. Webby and Dewey were simply unwitting passengers.”

“Why would someone go after Launchpad?” Huey asked hesitantly, as if he was afraid he already knew the answer. 

“And how do  _ you _ know that?” Louie pulled his hood down to add.

“Bentina…” Scrooge said warily. 

“Because Launchpad and I were agents in the same intelligence agency,” Beakley responded matter-of-factly. 

There was a beat of silence, in which Huey and Louie’s eyes went wide. Donald slapped a hand over his eyes in a show of familiar exasperation. 

“Launchpad’s a  _ spy?” _ Huey demanded, “You’re a  _ spy?” _

“I feel like I should’ve seen that coming,” Louie muttered. 

_ “How?” _

“What does you two being secret agents have to do with my missing kids?” Donald interrupted, stepping towards Beakley. 

“Are we just brushing past the fact that Launchpad’s a spy!” Huey cried plaintively. 

_ “Was _ a spy,” Beakley corrected, before looking to Donald. “And it matters because someone  _ knew _ Launchpad was S.H.U.S.H. Since he retired, those records were sealed, accessible only to the highest security clearance. But earlier today, for exactly 21 minutes, S.H.U.S.H. central intelligence was compromised. During that time, Launchpad received a distress call over an encrypted frequency,  which he left in response to.”

“You think someone was playing him,” Louie said, unfolding from his curled up position.  “Hacked in to get the info they needed to set him up.”

“Exactly,” Beakley maintained. “And considering the number of enemies he amassed over the years, it’s almost impossible to know who’s responsible.”

Donald whirled around to face Scrooge, jabbing him in the chest with an accusatory finger. “How could you hire someone so dangerous to drive you around? To drive the  _ kids _ around? He’s Dewey’s best friend, and you let me think the kids would be safe around him!”

_ “I _ am the one who hired Launchpad,” Beakley snapped, raising her voice so sharply that Donald couldn’t help but fall silent. “If you’re going to be throwing blame around, you should at least know where to aim it. But don’t forget that my  _ granddaughter _ is missing, too. I blame myself more you ever could.”

Some of the fight bled out of Donald’s stance. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, lowering his gaze. 

“I didn’t appraise Mr. McDuck of Launchpad’s status as a former-agent because that was what Launchpad wanted,” Beakley went on, “it never should’ve been a security risk, and none of you should’ve known the truth.”

Donald gathered Huey and Louie close, their expressions stricken. 

Beakley straightened her glasses, visibibly composing herself. 

So Scrooge felt a stab of guilt when he said,  _ “I _ knew.”

Donald’s glare was deadpanned, but Beakley seemed genuinely startled. 

“How on earth could you possibly know? You were out of the agency by the time Launchpad joined!”

“Is  _ everyone _ in our family a former-secret agent?” Huey exclaimed exasperatedly. 

“Anything you’d like to tell us, Uncle Donald?” Louie asked, only half joking. 

Ignoring his nephews, Donald turned back to Scrooge. “What do you mean, you  _ knew?” _

Scrooge raised his hands in front of him, his brow furrowing. “I mean, I knew something wasnae right. Launchpad was always coming in to work with injuries, he lied about having a second job — he was just a bloody awful liar, really.” He looked at Beakley, and shame softened his expression. “I also might’ve overheard the odd conversation between the two of you.”

Beakley’s responding smile was wry. “Launchpad did always hate lying.”

“And he shouldn’t have had to,” Scrooge said, sending Huey and Louie a pointed look. “But everyone has their secrets. That doesn’t mean you stop trusting them, or pry into their life. It was this whole mystery that led the kids to suspect Launchpad of hiding some dangerous alter-ego in the first place.”

“Um,” Beakley and Huey said in hesitant unison, “about that?”

The lights in the dining room flickered and died before they could elaborate.  

“What the —” Scrooge said, as he and the others looked up in confusion. 

Donald walked over to the light switch, flicking it up and down to no avail. “Forget to pay the electric bill, Scrooge?” He asked dryly. 

“Don’t be daft,” Scrooge muttered as he made his way to the door. “This is an old house, the wiring can be buggy at...times…”

In the foyer just beyond the doorway to the dining room, the lights had also gone out. The massive space was plunged almost entirely into darkness, save the orange light of early evening coming through the large square window above the stairs. 

“Well this isn’t creepy at all,” Louie muttered. 

“Beakley,” Scrooge said, as he stepped out into the darkened foyer, “We  _ did _ pay that electric bill, didn’t we?” 

Beakley and Donald followed him out, the latter holding Huey and Louie close to his sides.

“Yes, we did,” she replied, “but I don’t believe that has any bearing on the situation at hand.”

Purple smoke had begun to fill the foyer with a quiet hiss, trailing down from the landing above the stairs. It poured down the steps and hung low to the ground, like a fog. 

Donald let out an alarmed squawk, while Huey wondered aloud where it was coming from. 

“What in the name of Cutty Sharp is going on here!” Scrooge snapped. 

Like it was waiting for prompting, a disembodied voice resounded through the foyer like a rising storm, as if emanating from the smoke itself.

_ “I am the terror that flaps in the night!”  _

The smoke began to coalesce above the stairs, swirling around an invisible form. 

_ “I am the judge that finds you guilty on all charges!” _

Scrooge stepped out in front of his great-nephews, reaching back to shield them against whatever was coming. 

The cloud of purple smoke dissipated in a flurry of movement, and a shadowed figure emerged. Wreathed in tendrils of smoke and darkness was a tall duck, his face hidden under the wide brim of his hat and long, dark cape. 

“I am DARKWING DU—”

“Keen gear, is that Scrooge McDuck?”

Almost more alarming than the duck cloaked in shadow was the girl who appeared around of the darkness behind him. Unlike the man, there was nothing hidden or mysterious about her; she was short and stocky with brown feathers and curly red hair in two high pigtails atop her head. She was wearing a white and purple shirt and hot pink sneakers. 

The girl seemed to startle the stranger more than anything, judging by the way his voice cracked when he blurted, “Gosalyn! I told you to wait in the Thunderquack!” 

“Sorry,” she said, though her smile was less than apologetic. 

_ “Ahem,”  _ the stranger cleared this throat dramatically, as if only just remembering he had an audience. “As I was saying, I am—”

“Who the  _ blazes _ are you?” Scrooge demanded. “And  _ what _ are you doing in my home?”

The stranger sighed, dropping his cape to reveal the dark purple coat he wore beneath. “I’m Darkwing Duck,” he deadpanned, losing all sense of gravitas. 

“You’re  _ Darkwing Duck? _ Huey gasped. 

“You’re  _ real?” _ Louie exclaimed. 

“I’m real,” Darkwing Duck said. “And I’ve come here to ask one thing.” Out of all four of them, he turned to look at Beakley, and his voice sharpened.

“Where is my husband?”

  
  


The first thing Dewey became aware of was Launchpad’s worried face hovering over his own. 

The second thing was that literally  _ everything _ hurt. 

Dewey groaned, and closed his eyes again. He heard Launchpad laugh above him, but it wasn’t the same boisterous sound he was used to. This one was too tense, edging into a gasp. 

“C’mon, up and at ‘em,” Launchpad said, easing Dewey into a seated position with a hand under his shoulders. 

“My  _ eyeballs _ hurt,” Dewey complained, “how do my eyeballs hurt?”

Launchpad chuckled again, that same thin laugh that Dewey didn’t like at all. “Well, that’s what happens when you get knocked out, kiddo.”

Dewey forced his eyes open again, and actually took in his surroundings. 

They were in a bare room with concrete walls and floors, and no windows. A single, naked light bulb hung from the ceiling. They had a cell gate for a door, like a jail cell. 

Webby was sitting down against the wall opposite them, and she brightened when his gaze landed on her. 

“Dewey!” she exclaimed, rushing over to his side. “I was worried when you took so long to wake up.”

“What happened?” he muttered, rubbing his aching head. 

Webby exchanged a worried glance with Launchpad over Dewey’s head. “You don’t remember?” she asked. “We snuck into the limo all the way to St. Canard, and got cornered at the warehouse…”

Dewey’s headache spiked sharply, and he remembered the buzzing blade of a chainsaw narrowly missing his face. He remembered the man standing above them, sharp teeth in an even sharper face. He remembered being ushered out of the limousine by faceless, suited figures holding guns and knives and a black hood being tugged over his head. 

Dewey groaned again, and covered his face with his hands. “We shouldn’t have snuck into the limo.”

Webby giggled, sniffling a little. “Yeah, probably,” she said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. 

In the harsh light of the single light bulb, Webby’s feathers looked a sickly yellow, making the bruises on her face stand out in sharp purple splotches. He suspected that he didn’t look much better. 

Launchpad had been strangely silent, though he’d been rubbing Dewey’s back in slow circles, like Uncle Donald did when one of them was sick. 

Dewey craned his head back to look at him, and was taken aback by what he saw now that his vision had cleared. 

Launchpad had a lurid purple bruise the size of a fist on his jaw, near the corner of his beak. He had another on his cheekbone to match it. His baseball hat was missing and his hair was disheveled, and seeing him like this scared Dewey more than the cell they’d found themselves in. 

“Launchpad, your face…” Dewey said hesitantly. 

The pilot blinked, and pointed at his face. “Oh, this? I tripped on the way over here! You know how clumsy I get in these creepy bad guy lairs.”

He was lying. Launchpad was  _ lying _ . 

Dewey hadn’t even known Launchpad was  _ capable _ of lying. But his tone, deceptively casual in spite his outward appearance, was something Dewey had heard before, on the dock in Macaw. 

_ Oh, y’know, tourist stuff.  _

Launchpad had been draped in armor then, embedded with over a dozen arrows. It had been too ridiculous to take seriously, and the lie was easy to ignore. But then Dewey had heard it again, every time Launchpad told them about his other job, when he evaded their personal questions. 

He wondered if Launchpad had always been this bad a liar, and Dewey was only realizing it now. 

“Besides,” Launchpad said, squeezing Dewey’s shoulder. “I don’t think we’re going anywhere anytime soon.”

Dewey looked at Webby incredulously. “You can’t pick the lock, Webs?”

Webby lowered her head in shame, and her hair fell into her face, her bow no longer there to hold it in place. “They took everything useful I had on me. But I don’t know how much help I’d be if we don’t even know where we are.”

“Isn’t that the million dollar question!” responded a chillingly familiar voice from outside their cell, lilting and jovial despite sounding like churning gravel. 

A man without a face stepped out in front of the gate. 

Dewey nearly fell over himself trying to jerk to his feet, terror lancing through him sharply. In a flash, he was reliving the moment the faceless figures encircled them, pinned his arms to his sides, and shoved black bags over their heads.

Two more faceless people joined the first, standing shoulder to shoulder. They didn’t move again, standing still as statues in crisp suits. 

Webby reached up to hold his hand, and Dewey’s fear eased slightly, but not enough. Not when the space where the man’s eyes should’ve been seemed trained on him and him alone. 

But then faceless henchmen moved back, allowing the duck from the warehouse to step up to the bars. 

He was dressed just as impeccably as before, only without the long red overcoat they’d seen him in last. That left him in a black suit and yellow shirt, with a crimson tie slashing down his chest. 

He smiled at Dewey’s obvious show of fear, his sharktooth grin splitting his beak. “Sorry, sport, did my Eggmen scare you?” 

He stuffed one hand in his pocket, and waved the other in front of the first Eggman’s face, to no reaction. “They’ve got faces under those masks, promise. Probably not looking too pretty after going weeks without natural sunlight, but we don’t buy them for their looks. F.O.W.L. sells them to me by the dozen, so who am I to say no, huh? You know how it goes, don’t you, Double-O-D?”

Launchpad stiffened behind Dewey, clamping a hand on his shoulder almost tight enough to bruise. 

Webby leapt to her feet before Launchpad could stop her. 

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Where are you keeping us?”

The man chuckled, low and amused. He leaned against the side of the door and folded his arms, as if they were having a casual conversation.  “Feisty, huh? I like that. Well, sweetheart, your guest room is one of many in this five-star dig, all meant for guys a whole lot tougher than you.”

He spread his arms wide, like old-fashioned a game show host, saccharine cheer and all. “Welcome to St. Canard’s never-been-completed supermax prison! We hope you enjoy your stay.”

Dewey found the courage to speak up too, copying the haughty way Scrooge spoke when he was correcting someone. “Big whoop! We explore dungeons and caves scarier than this every other day, a stupid cell was the best you could throw at us?”

The man’s face went perfectly blank. So much so, he could almost be mistaken for the Eggmen behind him. 

Then, a smirk slowly crawling up his face, he said, “So you  _ are _ McDuck’s kids. Well don’t you worry, sonny, I’m sure we can find you a room befitting your blue blood status. How does hanging by your wrists from the ceiling sound?”

Launchpad cradled the horror-struck Dewey close to his chest, and dragged Webby back over to his side as well. When Dewey chanced a glance at him, he was glaring at the man with more hatred than they had ever seen him show anyone or anything. 

The man chortled, bending over nearly in half. He held onto the bars of the cell door for balance. “Aw, don’t worry, kids, yer ol’ Uncle Negaduck’s gonna take good care you! I can’t send you back to Mr. Moneybags in pieces, now can I?” 

The man, Negaduck, regained control of himself, save a few stray chuckles. “I’ve gotta run now, kiddies, but Rupert here,” he slapped the unresponsive Eggman behind him on the shoulder, “he’s gonna take great care of you. He might even feed you! And as for you, Mr. Super Spy…” 

Negaduck’s gaze bored into Launchpad, abruptly cold and still, like a snake. But his tone remained affable and light as he said, “it’s been a while since we had a nice  tête-à-tête. I’ll pencil you in, say, sometime in the next hour?”

He straightened his suit, and turned to vanish down the hallway. Two of the Eggmen followed him, though the third remained as unnaturally still as it had been since it arrived. 

Dewey and Webby looked back up at Launchpad, who had begun to look vaguely ill. 

“Launchpad,” Dewey said. “Who  _ are _ you?”

The pilot’s smile was a pale imitation of itself. “I’m Launchpad McQuack.”  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Let me know what you thought in the comments below!


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